Hearts in the Wind
by Silver Diva
Summary: The Phantom is dead. I am a man and I live!" 'Reborn' with new life made possible by a powerful admirer, Erik's guardian is a woman he calls his "armed nanny." Aislyne Butler takes the job of caring for an insane elderly uncle of the de'Chagnys. STORY COMPLETE!
1. Prologue

**Prologue  
1877 – Brighton, England**

The hand I held was small, with translucent nails, thin, skeletal fingers and the flat, meatless palms of hands that had yet to do one day's work. The face on the pillow was yellow with jaundice, waxy and pinched from pain. Morphine no longer worked against the raging monster destroying her entrails, poisoning her blood. Despite her malnourished state, Lucinda was bloated, her belly swollen and encircled with the marks of frail skin stretched beyond its limit. Her breathing had become labored, deep gasps that came more infrequently as the hours passed. I prayed she was soon to depart this life, as she had suffered enough.

There were those who said she deserved this suffering, every bit of grinding pain, the constant ache of seizing joints and dying organs. There were those who felt her agony was the righteous judgment of a just and avenging God; that her insanity was the result of the evil that had miss-formed her mind, and the crimes she committed were only to be expected from such an abomination. To avoid being guillotined for her crimes before the crowds at the Place de la Concorde, her loving parents had sent her out of France, over the objections of her ex-husband, and put her here in Nettles Home, an institution for the mentally insane.

I was assigned as her primary caregiver immediately, mandated by her violent and combative behaviors, and her constant self-mutilation. She was not to be handled by any other staff, and I found myself working round the clock for days at a time, keeping Lucinda Mignon Abrigaun from killing herself or injuring anyone else. I became familiar with the raging demon I fought daily for her soul, and the evil that had been planted there by the man her parents had trusted to care for her.

To this very day, I do not know what finally won her; I could not tell you of a program, or discipline, or set forth the regimen that cleared the chancre from her heart, and the sickness from her mind. I merely held Lucinda's body as she spat and kicked and screamed of her wish to die. I bandaged her bleeding face when she abused it with her fists, ripping open her own flesh with the sharp edges of her braces. I held her hands and sang to her, rocked her and read to her. I massaged emollient into the hardened scars that ridged her body, from the top of her shoulders to the back of her calves that spoke of the horrendous beatings she endured in her marriage.

For weeks I went home to my little apartment and cried myself to sleep. I found myself in a battle for my own soul, for even as the hate and horror left Lucinda's mind and heart, it found a home in mine. I swore I would someday go to France and find this man, and visit upon him what he'd visited upon Lucinda.

God bless the wise and worldly pastor at the Brighton Presbyterian Church who gave so many Sunday afternoons to counseling me on God's grace and my duty to those who are overcome by the Evil One's sorcery.

There was then a day when the ugliness overcame Lucinda, and instead of ripping at her face, or battering her poor body, she held out her arms to me for comfort and soothing, sobbing in terror. One morning she was singing softly in her bed when I came in to awaken her for breakfast. Good days were followed by calm evenings, and gradually Lucinda Mignon Abrigaun became what God had meant her to be: an angel on earth; a loving child in the broken body of a woman.

Here, at Nettle's Home, she had spent the last years of her adulthood, from the age of 22 until she reached her 29th year. The staff loved Lucinda, for her sunny, cheerful attitude, her giving, loving nature, and child-like beauty. We had celebrated her last birthday three months before, with a cake and presents; hair ribbons for her long lustrous hair, and two pretty pastel jumpers to wear over the rather plain white hospital gowns that served as most of the female patients' clothing.

She had clapped her hands and squealed like a little girl…exactly as the little girl she had remained her entire life. Lucinda Mignon Abrigaun had never aged emotionally or developmentally past early adolescence, yet was given at age 15 in marriage to a man of social prominence who was nearly three decades her elder. Her parents, God help them, had thought they had done the best they could for her.

I've seen her wedding photo, a Daguerreotype of a true child bride, a vision in white satin, lace and tulle, petite and perfect, with diamonds in her ears and pearls encrusted on her gown, and scattered throughout her thick cascading brunette curls. I saw a tiny woman with the face of a child, the shining over-excitement of playing dress up on a grand scale blurring her rapt smile in the photo.

_It made me sick._

On her last birthday she had eaten a bit of cake and drank the tepid sweetened tea. That night she had rocked and convulsed around her swollen abdomen, gasping with the pain, and crying in my arms. Louise, a fellow caregiver, and I sat with Lucinda in shifts until her body had expelled the minute amount of waste it contained and she could sleep in grateful exhaustion.

So her illness had progressed, in ten short months, with each week bringing an increase in her pain, an increase in medication. And just as she'd been every day of the past 8 years and as many months of her life while locked away here in the Sanitarium, she remained cheerful and sweet, with kisses and kind words for all who came within her sphere. To know her was to love her for her sweet child's lack of pretension and cupidity.

To watch her suffer, patient and without complaint, offering smiles of comfort or words of apology to those of us who must clean and tend her, was to sob quietly behind one's hands after she'd finally found sleep under the kind aegis of repeated doses of laudanum, and finally morphine.

_I was now past tears… _

I held her fragile hand and rubbed it mindlessly with my thumb, and prayed for her soul, my mothers' ruby glass-bead rosary in my other hand, slipping from worn bead to worn bead. I entreated my God for mercy for the wounded angel who gasped toward death beside me, and requested intersession from the Holy Mother of the Universe for Lucinda's blameless soul. I prayed for the souls of the four children she bore the twisted man who married her, who are now with Him in Heaven, if a merciful God indeed exists.

How many times had I made this death watch with the dying? How many hands had I held and rubbed gently while death raged through the attendant body, stealing function, stripping vitality, and ultimately life, fraying the tender threads that held the soul to body. I closed my eyes and prayed again for the soul of Lucinda. I dozed briefly.

Suddenly Lucinda sat upright, tearing her hand from mine. Her eyes opened wide, and she gasped, "Pierre! Mon Ange'!" Tears washed down her hollowed cheeks, flowing from rheumy eyes, which yet again blazed with light and joy. "Lizzelle! My sweet...My babies! Annette'...Felix! My little loves!"

Lucinda's words were slurred and her voice rose in tenor and force as she again beheld the faces of her much-missed children, visible to her alone. Her arms stretched out, unwavering in their reach for these beloved spirits despite her weakened condition, her fingers waggling in childish impatience for the anticipated embrace. Her smile was radiant, then serene...and as she sank against the pillows, all animation fled her face, and life left her body, crumpled and discarded, behind.

Harsh sobs pushed past the fists I had pressed to my lips. Shock and primitive fear flooded my body, and I felt the hair on my neck rise in reaction. "Dearest God in Heaven," I moaned, "I have prayed for absolution to this woman's soul. Oh, please, be merciful!" I fell to my knees from the chair to her bedside, and clasped her tiny hand, my grief and joy as one entwined. Lucinda must surely be bound to Heaven if these, her own beloved children, were to greet and accompany her through Death's grim door!

Her son, Pierre had been 4 years when he died, Lizzelle, her daughter, 2. Tiny Annette and Felix, her twins, had passed when but weeks old. Each had died held in their mother's arms...Lucinda's soft loving arms, as she drowned them, one by one in the family bath.


	2. Chapter One

_This story begins in 1883, as I have moved the entire Phantom story ahead 10 years to bypass all the political mess that blew through France 1870 to 1874. I hope this offends no one.  
_  
**Chapter 1**

At the tender age of 36 years, after 18 years of employment within the mental healthcare field, I found myself to have acquired the singular reputation of being able to help some of those who were in the grips of mental illness or emotional distress. I profess no magic cure, no regimen of choice, and certainly no guarantee of results. The vocation had been dropped upon me from out of the blue at a time in my life when I'd found myself without a 'pot to piss in' as my beautiful mother would say, and I needed employment in order to feed my family.

At the time of my employment as an aide at the well-known Elysian Fields Sanitarium for the Mentally Ill, insanity was believed to be an illness strictly of the mind. As such, it could not be dosed or bled or removed, much less laid bare for examination. It existed in the ether of human thought, and manifested itself in the outward behaviors that mirrored those thoughts. This was the generally accepted dogma of mental health care in Europe, 1883.

Care for the mentally ill consisted usually of removing such patients from the general public, and providing mainly custodial containment and the bare necessities of survival to patients with a wide range of clinical disorders and social abnormalities. Naturally, a 'cure' for most of the really spectacular illnesses was not to be found, although it was thought by some early intervention and treatment could offer a cure in some respects.

Generally speaking, however, those who were judged mentally ill could not look forward to treatment for their malady. They were warehoused, kept as docile as leather straps, cold or hot baths, spinning chairs, and a total lack of intellectual stimulation could render them. The power of fear and intimidation was also the mainstay treatment administered by the near-criminals charged with caring for these unfortunates. Standards of treatment for most afflicted with mental illness were barbaric. The more money paid for the care of the patient could usually insure better treatment if pressed into the right hands.

There were those, of course, who had physical afflictions that exacerbated an already unsteady mind; the chronic drunks, opium addicts, syphilis infected, and pregnant or menopausal women. You smile at the last two items, but it is true; pregnancy and menopause were accepted as aggravating factors in women who displayed pathological behaviors. Of course, women were judged to have 'weak' minds to begin with.

The recent death of my parents and the simultaneous loss of our family business had left me without income and the head of a household of three younger sisters and brother. My older brothers were either married with families, still back in Ireland in the horse business, or both. My eldest sister had a family of her own, living abroad. I found myself with the responsibility of raising my 6 year old brother, Quinn, and sisters, Derry, 8 Grania, 9, and Kenna, 11. I was barely 18.

I quickly found that employment for women, especially single women of 18 years, and untried in any profession but caring for pregnant broodmares or younger siblings, pays very little. Work that did not involve alcohol or living away from one's home was impossible to find. And so I despaired, stretching the tiny savings left by my parents, and shamelessly accepting covert gifts from my brothers Tiarnan and Kavenaugh, much to the disgust of their wives.

Ah, women. Are we not our own worst enemies?

I finally secured a position working as an aid at a very exclusive sanitarium on the outskirts of London, caring for those whose families found themselves too troubled, aggravated, or embarrassed to do so themselves. I met the grocer's wife while picking through the over-aged vegetables behind Bishop's Grocery. She had heard of an aide's position just open through one of the employees there. It seems the position was precipitously abandoned after an overly amorous naked male inmate accosted the former employee.

Clasping my hands in hers and smiling up into my face, she had breathlessly shared that she immediately thought of me for the job. I thanked her for her consideration, and her good deed done, she bustled back inside the grocery. Idly I wondered why she felt naked love-sick males would of be of little consequence to me, considering my lack of exposure. With further introspection however, I felt I could probably deal with every male state, having spent most of my life living with the drunken, randy puppy behavior of four older brothers.

I immediately brushed myself down and appeared before the head doctor at the Elysian Fields Sanitarium, smiling, bright-eyed and anxious to work. I would like to believe that I was given this position, without reference or past experience, because I was judged to be honest, hardworking, strong and capable. However, I do believe I won the job on my looks alone, tall, knockle-boned and board-straight though I was. The gentleman who hired me, Dr. Charles Emory Melbourne, was struck by my resemblance to his deceased mother, obviously beloved but as plain as the cook's spoon. I did not know whether to think him blind or as addled as his clientele. I could certainly sympathize with the departed Mrs. Melbourne!

I did know to keep my mouth shut and smile, however, and smile I did. The good doctor hired me, and thereafter often spoke to me of his dear mother, and I feel fortunate that he suffered no Oepidical tendencies. The job was God-sent, paid well enough to secure our home for my siblings until the last left the family home at age 15, to join his brothers in the business they had launched in the years before.

I found myself an unmarried spinster and totally alone at age 26. Oh, there were proper Catholic gentlemen callers for several years, and I briefly knew the heady stuff of infatuation a time or two. However, always there stood my chosen profession to contend with—no gentleman wanted his sweetheart dealing with naked, dangerous, crazy people. It would have been far better had I done laundry from dusk till dawn for pennies a day, or worked as a maid or housegirl for the local gentry, being paid even less for more hours. These were things a man could understand as woman's true vocation!

Add the fact I no more wished to stay home and drop a baby every 14 months than sell my body for sixpence on the street corner. Oh, and the fact I was all but excommunicated from the Catholic Church…

The fine Catholic gentlemen found younger, more compliant women to woo, and I buried myself in my work, took piano lessons from the organist at the local Church of England vicarage, and returned to my sketch block.

And so I spent the first eight years of my profession in London, dealing with the institutionalized highborn and well-bred citizens who regularly shite themselves, ate foreign substances, sliced constantly at their own bodies, or displayed other less-than-attractive habits. My first two years I cleaned more feces-coated surfaces than I care to remember. I also learned to firmly deal with those who felt my body should be available for whatever demented and demeaning use they felt appropriate. I perfected the ability to bring calm and quiet to those who felt screaming and physical attack would best slay whatever demons beset them. There is also my uncommon height and obvious physical strength which is intimidating to all but the most psychotic of patients.

There is little room for the expression of compassion or understanding in the care of the insane, much less disgust, repugnance, disapproval, fear, amusement, pity, and anger. Speed of response and a display of quiet confidence and competence did more to quell, reassure, and convince the uneasy of mind than any handholding or sharing of tears. I was as emotionally removed and yet physically capable as I could manage, and this proved to be exactly what was needed for the broken minds I dealt with daily. My height of six feet and a bit barefoot, and the fact I could lift most of the female patients without strain did not hurt either. Years of horse handling has provided me with the skills to maneuver the most obdurate of patients. It is all in where you push.

I never, however, used my physical advantages to purposely intimidate a patient. I felt this counterproductive to a patient's potential to heal. I have found that trust and fear are mutually exclusive.

Eventually I felt it necessary to move from the house that had been the family home for fourteen years. I sold it, turned the results realized over to Beyvin and Quinn, the eldest sister and youngest brother, packed my few personal belongings and left London, traveling south to the burgeoning city of Brighton, and the sanitarium there, Nettles Home. After receiving my letter of inquiry concerning possible employment a few months before, along with glowing (and tearful) reference from Dr. Melbourne, I was offered a job straight away.

Brighton was not that far from the teeming metropolis of London, and served as a minor port of entry for travelers from France. As many of the sanitarium residents were French citizens, French became my third language, after the Gaelic of my youth, and English. It was but a distant third, however, as my Irish tongue did not work as well when asked to perform the arrogantly glottal and hissy French language. I am afraid the French patients suffered tremendously when I spoke at any length in their tongue.

At Nettles Home, there were separate wings for the men and the women, and an additional wing designated exclusively for women who were suffering from emotional malaise due to pregnancy and menopause. It should be noted that the ladies in the Pre-Partum Wing were, as a fact, well-heeled, and either of the aristocracy, or married to/involved with those of the aristocracy. No village bride who found herself scared spitless at the thought of giving birth would be afforded the opportunity to enjoy such care at the time of her lying in.

Post-partum malaise had yet to be given recognition at that time by any but those who could afford to seek the palliative treatment. My mother, God bless her, raised 10 healthy children, having one nearly atop the next, and I never saw any of the emotional hand wringing and over-dramatics that a few of our fine ladies got up to. Having never borne a child, I can only conjecture on the emotional impact inherent to that of having a child. I now realize I may never know myself.

I will say I was never treated with less respect in any other wing of the hospital, even when I was just the automaton scraping shite off naked arses or the walls in the private patient suites in London. These women were usually children having babies, and were therefore throwing tantrums and misbehaving outrageously due to terror, loneliness and physical discomfort. I was the frequent target for their sense of outrage and feelings of abandonment.

No man, however young, randy, or insane offered near the physical threat to that presented by a pregnant, and emotionally volatile female. I was a reproach in the fact that I could walk comfortably, wear attractive clothing (although I didn't have any) and go home to my own special things, instead of being cooped up in a private golden cage. I could feel pity for a 15 year old who had found herself wedded to and skirts up beneath a Lord of the Realm, triple her age and ugly to boot, who now suffered the insult of pregnancy. Sickness, debilitation, and loss of attention led to ill humor in the 'increasing' female. Moreover, it was just such lasses who took special delight in trying to behead me with the husband's and/or lover's latest guilt offering of flowers, vase thoughtfully included.

I will admit that I accepted the uncivil treatment afforded me in the Pre-Partum Wing with no loss of self-respect, merely because I understood their elevated social class had totally stripped them of any personal worth. They had no freedom in their lives and were, many of them, nothing but prize broodmares (but without the loveable personalities). Few read, enjoyed music, or developed interests in anything beyond what society…and their husbands…dictated. Once a woman had dropped the 'heir and a spare', and survived, she was free to pursue whatever dissipations and distractions she saw fit. Gambling, sexual promiscuity, drug use, and other unhealthy physical habits were common. This was the world of the idle rich, a world that held so few healthy outlets for a woman's emotional life, and gave so little regard to her intellectual potential.

I went home to my small comfortable apartment, located over the local subscription library, to my cat, Mudkins, and my piano. I sketched and painted frequently at the town park, weather permitting, and I stabled my fine foxhunting/driving mare, Lyric, at the Ballyho Stablery a short walk from my front door. I foxhunted, thanks to the kindness and support of Dr. Smythe, who was Head of Psychiatric at the Nettles Home, and I was considered a fine horsewoman. I lived alone. Granted, I was subject to every appellate danger and threat that my singular state carried.

It was also true that I had chosen a profession deemed little better than street whore or opera singer to the ruling and middle classes. Add to that my advanced age (anything over 25 years), physical appearance (too tall, too thin, no style) and you see where I might find myself with much time in which to enjoy my 'freedom'.

As often happens to a woman in my circumstance, my work became my life.

I did, of course, by God's gentle grace, land flat-footed into the upper echelon of this profession, never serving in the 'general' wards of the poor homes and church hospitals in England or France. My career was birthed with a silver spoon shoved in its gob, so to speak. During my employment I had cared for those of the nobility who were deeply in substance abuse, such as alcohol or morphine, or who had inherited Great Aunt Margaret, Duchess of Tuckberry's curious affinity to shucking every stitch of clothing and running amok through the front manse shrubbery.

There were indeed all sorts of afflictions. There were too many cases, I'm afraid to say, that were cases of "the sins of the fathers". And finally, those of the mother…


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter 2**

_March 19, 1883 (Two years after Opera Populaire burns)_

I entered Doctor Smythe's claustrophobic office and was nonplussed to find it full of people already. Two gentlemen were seated before the doctor's desk, one dark haired and sweet-featured, the other blond. Yet another was standing at the back corner of the small room. At my entrance, one of the seated gentleman turned and jumped to his feet, but quickly sat again after my acknowledgment and smile. Both seated gentlemen then began whispering, the blond gentleman definitely in ill-humor, the other making soothing noises and calming gestures. They spoke French.

I remained standing at the door, and covertly inspected them. The light-haired individual was definitely young, likely of noble birth, easily perceived by his lack of manners, and supercilious demeanor. I had yet to see his face.

I found the standing gentleman interesting; his face was dark and leathered from the sun, possibly East Indian in ancestry. He did not lean against the solid bookcase behind him, as one might want to do, but remained rod straight, hat over his heart and his eyes appeared to be closed.

All three were dressed in the current style as set by French fashion; narrow cravats of white silk, simply tied, colored silk waistcoats, suits in subdued colors of grey and black. The polite gentleman busy soothing the younger man was stocky and rounded, in a pleasant way, tall enough, with thick black hair, fashionably cut, and a slightly swarthy complexion.

The annoyed member of the group, aristocratic to his highly polished shoes, had his hair slicked over his head and falling to his shoulders on each side. An immature reddish mustache sparsely covered his full upper lip. He looked tired and ill tempered, with lines crossing his high forehead and shadows beneath his eyes. My immediate thought was that I would be assigned to a private pre-natal confinement; young men generally found gestating women to be a great trial, especially during the final trimester. I smiled to myself, and immediately _felt _the gaze of the dark gentleman on my face. Giving him one swift startled glance, I properly dropped my regard to my knees.

Crossly I wondered when somebody would tell me why I had been summoned.

The good Doctor Smythe eventually joined us via his private entrance, and all seemed to give a relieved sigh. Both seated gentlemen stood and the swarthy gentleman introduced himself to Doctor Smythe as Monteque Abrigaun, solicitor for the de'Chagny family. Monsieur Abrigaun then introduced the younger man as 'le Vicomte de'Chagny,' who merely inclined his head a millimeter or so to the doctor. Abrigaun gestured to the dark gentleman standing to the back, introducing him as Mister Kahn, who sharply bowed and uttered "A pleasure, Doctor" in a melodious voice, thick with foreign accent.

Dr. Smythe immediately requested I come forward to the side of his desk, and placing his hand on my shoulder, introduced me as "Mademoiselle Aislyne Butler, my Angel of Healing". I could not stifle my wince. Smythe frequently waxes hyperbolic on my ability to enter the room of a crazed patient and restore them to relative calm in short order. I strongly resist his assertions that I have a 'gift' or that I am an angel of anything. The true credit goes to the excellence of all the staff, and the kindness with which we always approach every patient.

However, I can never tell him that.

The Doctor insisted on continuing the habit of overstatement in his introductions, and I know I felt my discomfort manifestly displayed across my cursed open face. Now aware that Mr. Kahn found me of great interest nearly to the point of being rude, I directly schooled my face into something less transparent. I have been the object of rude once-overs, ugly leers, raging glares and the occasional glassy-eyed regard many times in my years at this occupation. Never before had I felt as if I were being effortlessly opened and read, like a book under consideration by a patron at the lending library.

Dr. Smythe requested I seat myself in the chair beside his desk, and I did so, after scooting the chair discretely back a foot or so away from the young Vicomte's knees. The office in which we were meeting was far too small to hold this many unrelated and unacquainted people in comfort. I again wondered why we had met here, instead of the larger, better appointed parlor at the front of the Home.

After a whispered consult with the Vicomte, Abrigaun unfolded himself from the chair, and with two long strides past the Vicomte, he was beside my chair. Looking up, I gave him a polite smile, and wished fervently I'd had time to comb my wild, blow-away hair neatly back into its bun. Monsieur Abrigaun put his arms behind his back and faced me, unsmiling, and addressed me in accented English. "I know that you must suffer the curiosity as to why Dr. Smythe requested you meet with the Vicomte' de Chagny, Mr. Kahn, and myself. This is true, Mademoiselle?"

I smiled a bit at his novel English, and nodded my head.

"I wonder if my surname you have heard before, Mademoiselle?" I noticed his very bright and friendly expression was changing into a rather crooked smile, as his lips began trembling and his eyes assumed a suspiciously bright sheen.

I gave this question due consideration and answered, "Indeed, I have, Monsieur Abrigaun. However, I am not aware if there is any connection. The young lady whom I knew with the last name 'Abrigaun' died in my care nearly 6 years ago."

Yes, my memory of Lucinda had immediately rushed to mind upon hearing the Abrigaun name. It did not occur to me that there might be a relationship between the man who stood beside my chair now and sweet Lucinda...

Abrigaun then did something that astounded me; he descended gracefully to one knee next to my chair, and clasped my right hand in both of his. Hoarse with emotion, he rasped "Mademoiselle Butler, you I wish to tell how I..eh... _reconnaître_... appreciate all that was done to make my sister's final years happy! Her life, it had been a living hell while married to that _bête de diables!_ She was but a broken thing when _mère et père_ rescued her from French injustice and her husband's cruel hands!" Fervently he raised my nerveless hand to his lips and kissed it softly, several times. I saw that his eyes were now awash with real tears. "Madame, you are indeed an '_Ange de Curatif_'!"

Predictably, my cheeks flushed hotly, and I cursed myself for reacting so to the gentleman's heartfelt words. Yet I also developed a fearful urge to grasp Abrigaun's neatly groomed head, place it on my shoulder, and pat him until his emotional turn had passed.

_Lucinda's brother…_

I lay my other hand over his, and so clasped together, I assured Monsieur Abrigaun in a oddly affected voice, as graciously as one can in such circumstance... that Lucinda Mignon Abrigaun had herself been an angel in my life. I expressed my gratitude for his kind words, and my own pleasure at meeting her dear 'little' brother, of whom she frequently spoke, and so on. I know he saw the earnest tears in my eyes, and we shared tremulous smiles. I then dropped my eyes to my knees and employed both hands to the task of discretely applying the handkerchief conveniently kept up my right sleeve to the tears that ran down my cheeks.

Monsieur Abrigaun stood and faced the long windows behind the doctor's desk, away from the gaze of unwitting participants to our touching '_contact des coeurs_' to compose himself. After a discrete blowing of the nose, he again faced the room, his _bonhomie_ restored. His client, the Vicomte de'Chagny' looked to be vastly amused by his solicitor's dramatic expression of appreciation, almost to the point of sneering.

I was chagrined to see that Abrigaun immediately schooled the sweet smile right off his face. While observing this little byplay I become conscious that Mr. Kahn was watching _me_. I immediately took myself to task, setting my eyes on my hands and smoothing any telltale expression from my face.

The lawyer then abruptly moved to stand next to de'Chagny' and leaned toward me, his hand on the Vicomte's shoulder. "Mademoiselle Butler, it because of the...dare I say...magic performed in _mon petite_ Lucinda's life that the Vicomte I have brought here to meet you. He seeks a solution to a situation that has so affected his young wife that she threatens of killing herself! Mon Dieu! Need I tell you why it was of yourself I spoke to him? You, _mon plus cher am_ are the only person who can save the de'Chagny's from a situation most tragic!"

Ah, see, I was right! It is a pre-partum! Oh, the French flair for overstatement!

"Monsieur de Abrigaun", I demurred gently, smiling into his lovely deep brown eyes, "any arrangements made for my services as private caretaker and companion must be made through my employer, Doctor Smythe." I dropped my left hand gently on the good doctor's desk, as if firmly placing the matter there, in his hands. "As I do not at this time have any private patients pending, I should be able to take the assignment…" Thinking that I needed to affect rapprochement with the young Vicomte, I smiled at de'Chagny' warmly, and continued, "…and care for your lady wife." I turned to Doctor Smythe, "With Dr. Smythe's approval, naturally." As Doctor Smythe had called me here, I assumed there was little more to be done except prepare a room for the hapless Vicomtess de'Chagny, or pack my bags for a few weeks stay wherever Vicomtess de'Chagny was staying in Brighton.

Doctor Smythe however, remained quiet, his hand at his ear, tugging furiously. I, as well as all the staff, knew very well what that meant. It was obvious that he was feeling trapped and unhappy about something, which meant there was more to this than I now knew.

Dr. Smythe remained mute, refusing to enlighten me, and I turned to Monsieur Abrigaun, "Is there something further I need to know?" I inquired with the tiniest of smiles.

Monsieur Abrigaun returned his back upright, and pulling one hand down his face smoothed the pained expression away. "It would be required for this... _'attribution de la pitié_...this assignment...that you leave your position here at Nettles Home _immédiatement_ for departure to Paris tomorrow morning. _Le_ patient we will _reprenez_ at that time, and forthwith relocate to the de'Chagny _petit domaine_ on the Coast of Tuscany, Italy. Finally, you must yourself contract to provide the care and companionship of the patient for one entire year."

Several moments of absolute silence followed this extraordinary pronouncement. Confused, I carefully worked through the list of conditions I had just been handed.

Why, indeed would I agree to do any of these things, I asked myself?

As if reading my mind, Abrigaun, spoke softly, as if we two were alone. "My dear Mademoiselle Butler, be assured that I know it is much we ask of you. Vicomte de'Chagny' fears for the very lives of his beloved wife and _enfant à venir,_ or we would be of a happier ability to give you the time to properly prepare! I beg you to consider this, the ultimate welfare of the de'Chagny family, and most important, the torment of the young Vicomtess de'Chagny."

Well, now that I had been delivered the good news, I felt it only fair to ask for the bad. " Monsieur Abrigaun, I am to understand that not only am I to leave the employ of Nettles Home, with the full consent of my employer..." and here I looked to Dr. Smythe who sat still pulling at his ear, "but to be ready in mere hours for a water crossing, and journey across France?

Abrigaun smiled apologetically. "_Ou_i, Mademoiselle."

"Furthermore," I added, "I would be employed for one full year, the end of which would find me far from home. Monsieur Abrigaun, what if the Vicomtess and I find we do not suit? I will assure you that such things do happen, especially if the Vicomtess is in the throes of a debilitating mental condition! What assurances can you give me that I won't be turned out upon the road, without a sou to my name?" Mr. Kahn displayed a flash of teeth. I wondered what I had said that would so amuse?

Abrigaun waved these concerns away. "I believe the compensation stated in the contract I have drawn up here" and he pointed to the leather case resting between de'Chagny's highly-shined shoes, "will be... _satisfaisant entièrement_!

Abrigaun's smile was dazzling, as he again leaned forward and clasped my hand, shaking it with excitement. "_Sincèrement _Mademoiselle Butler, indeed, you may need work never again! And being 'turned out without a _sou_'," here Abrigaun looked heavenward, eyes closed, and gently placed his hand over his heart. It was difficult not to find him amusing. "Please Mademoiselle, you wound me! I will personally insure that all consideration be to you given, whatever the situation between yourself and the... er...patient. If the situation it arises that you cannot complete the full year, you will be paid your due monthly stipend of £50 pounds sterling, plus a pro-rated sum of the final contract amount for time worked. The total contract is for £30,000 Sterling, payable one-twelfth upon your arrival at the Petite' Belle Maison de'Chagny in Tuscany. The remainder upon the full service of the contract will then be paid to you." Abrigaun grinned widely at the look on my face.

If I were the fainting type, I could have fainted right then. I did have a rather novel buzzing noise in my ears, and my limbs were developing an alarming tendency to tremble and move about without conscious request.

'So much money!' I thought to myself. "Men's vows are women's traitors," thus wisely spoke the Bard!

I looked with no little suspicion to poor, wounded Monsieur Abrigaun. De'Chagny, whose face now was clearly showing his dissatisfaction with the entire situation glared at Abrigaun, and spoke the first words I'd heard from him; "Dammit, Monty', get on with it!"

After a second's contemplation of de'Chagny's angry countenance, I returned to Abrigaun. "Is there more you need tell me?"

This poor man wiped a bead or two of sweat from his brow. Theatrics can be fatiguing, I suppose. However, Abrigaun, game to the end, visibly gathered his thoughts and courage, and brought himself again to the point.

"The person for whom you will serve as caretaker and companion...is a... gentleman. He is now locked in a _sécurité élevée_ mental ward, under suicide watch, charged with two murders and facing sentence of death by guillotine."

I breathed a heartfelt "Oh my..." and stared stricken and confused into Abrigaun's face.

Monsieur Abrigaun smiled grimly, and added, as if happy to assure me that I was truly qualified for the job, "Oh, and he is, I assure you, quite, quite insane."


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter 3**

I was given a haphazard tale following the 'formal' meeting in Dr. Smythe's office, delivered piecemeal by Monsieur Abrigaun, with asides and elaboration from the Vicomte de'Chagny.

I was told the gentleman in question is an "older relative," loosely described as an 'honorary uncle' to the de'Chagnys. This gentleman had served as a surrogate father for the Vicomtess immediately after the demise of her own father when she was but eight years, her mother having died four years before. He provided young Christine with academic tutoring, and funded her living expenses at an exclusive arts academy. He personally gave her voice lessons, piano lessons, and insured she received instruction in etiquette and elocution such as would be expected for young women far above her humble birth.

De'Chagny growled, "He…**my...**_**uncle **_was damned strict with Christine, going so far as to dictate how Christine was to use her free time!"

Abrigaun quickly smoothed over his client's harsh words, continuing with the tale.

Upon Christine's maturing into a young woman and attracting de'Chagny as a suitor at age 16, her benefactor developed a possessive _tendre'_ for her and began wooing her, in somewhat odd fashion, if Abrigaun and his scowling client were to be believed. The word 'hypnotize' was used freely by de'Chagny when speaking of the effect this elderly lothario had upon Christine. He felt the gentleman could bind Christine to him by simply singing to her.

Despite his putative use of the dark arts, the Uncle made no headway; Christine did not accept his suit. She instead became thoroughly frightened of him, as he began to act as a man will when lost in lust or love; I suppose either could have resembled madness. He followed her everywhere, left her gifts, flowers and demanding notes. He endeavored to seduce her by singing highly suggestive lyrics to her, and finally threatened to remove de'Chagny from the picture, _permanently_. Herein De'Chagny added Christine had been sick with fright and was in constant terror that he…de'Chagny…would soon be found hanging from a convenient tree.

As a last attempt to keep Christine for himself, Uncle kidnapped her, strangling a fellow who accidentally got in his way in the process, then captured and threatened to kill de'Chagny unless Christine swore to marry him in exchange for de'Chagny's life. From there the story developed more twists than the River Shannon.

From the disjointed and slightly contradicting accounts given at this point simultaneously by Abrigaun and de'Chagny, either Christine or de'Chagny tricked or overpowered the elderly uncle and they fled, running for the security of the de'Chagny estate. Uncle de'Chagny, meanwhile went into hiding, and the Vicomte and his fiancé, then bride, lived months in fear of Uncle's retaliation.

The name 'de'Chagny' had power in Paris society, and therefore a city-wide manhunt for the man was initiated. Many months later, the Parisian police captured poor Uncle, ragged and skeletal, having lived in the sewers and catacombs of Paris to avoid the police.

He was immediately charged with "many" crimes, not least of which was murder and kidnapping. Considered insane, he was thrown into the infamous Rois Pour la Défectuosité, the Republic of France's asylum for the criminally insane, to cool his heels and await either French justice via the guillotine at the Place de la Concorde or a lifetime spent with his sleeves wrapped behind his back.

He languished there for over a year, yet even in the 'Rois the de'Chagny name brought special favors. He was fed well, given frequent bathing privileges and so on, _by order of the Vicomte_.

I raised an eyebrow at this, considering a revision of my first impression of the man… Merciful and forgiving? A quick look in his direction was not supportive however, as he looked ready to throttle us all, ruddy-faced with anger and impatience, again striding about like a caged bear.

It was at that moment I again _felt_ Mr. Kahn's gaze, and I could not stop myself from turning to look at him. His expression was composed, and unreadable, but for a moment I felt as if we shared a thought…an unkind one at that, at the young vicomte's expense.

I turned away, but not before he had smiled at the warmth that swept my cheeks.

Unaware of the byplay around him, Abrigaun continued the tale of 'Uncle de'Chagny' (I confess, no one actually CALLED this man "Uncle de'Chagny") and I did catch every word..

Leniency was granted for poor, batty Uncle de'Chagny, and his release from the asylum made possible, if only a skilled and congenial caretaker should be found to aid the befuddled man. The Vicomtess was adamantly against subjecting her beloved, terrifying uncle to the careless brutality common to those who offered their services as keepers of the mentally ill, home-kept or institutionalized. She wished her uncle to live his remaining years in comfort and peace, left to his harmless artistic and scientific pursuits,to betreated with unfailing dignity in his declining years.

Of course, this would be at a far distance from Paris, specifically, Livorno, Italy, at a 'modest 15-room country estate, with a full complement of servants and security, and safely surrounded by miles of de'Chagny land."

And…Abrigaun had remembered the woman who had brought his sister such peace...

There the tale ended. The sun had attained it's daily zenith and time was passing. The question was put to me yet again; "Will you take the assignment?" Delivered by a now visibly stressed Vicomte.

No doubt easily interpreting the overwhelmed expression on my face, Abrigaun suggested I be given a half-hour's time to look over the merits of the contract, no doubt convinced the pound-signs alone would win my signature. The gentlemen left me, to sit outside on the large front veranda and smoke cigars.

I could hear de'Chagny's footsteps as he paced to and fro...the man _was_ in a state.

I did review the numbers, lightheaded at just the thought of that much competence at my disposal. Idly I looked over the contract, which was in impeccable English, while I considered the entire tale, and reasons I should or should not take the assignment. Adventure, travel, and the chance to be something beyond the spinster who lived above the library for the next 40 years…the pull was intense. My life as it was: safe, comfortable, and full of the things I loved…pulled just as hard.

The longer I deliberated the more upset I became. Helpless tears of frustration rolled down my cheeks.

I was being torn apart.

At that moment I heard my mother's placid voice, and her hand laid gently upon my trembling shoulder: _"Aislyne, my girl, never plant your heart in the earth, to be forever tied to one place. _

_Better to throw it upon the wind and call the whole world home."_

Today Erik chose the piano, a Chickering, a true concert-quality instrument built to deliver it's voice to the back of a concert hall. He had played one several times at the Paris National, having 'visited' after hours for that express purpose. Several months thereafter, he pondered ways of getting such a piano back to his home, finally abandoning the notion. The Chickering's steel frame and heavy-duty components made it totally impractical. Disassembling a piano held little attraction to him these days.

The Chickering was beautifully finished, in deepest black, with the fine satiny gloss that spoke to the hours spent rubbing the oil finish into the carefully stained basswood. Its lines were stark, long and unbroken by ornamentation. This was not the instrument to dress up Countess Capaet's 'salon'. It's purpose was to be the backdrop, the gessoed canvas, that awaited application of the artist's hands and thereby the artistry of the music.

There were times when the piano best expressed the music. Its clarity of sound offered what the pipe organ, with it's strong sibilant sustain, could not. A piano such as this allowed him to bring individual expression from each key struck; this was not as easily done on the organ. Idly he played a run on the keyboard, soft floating touch to one key, firm touch the next, running through all six octaves ascending with both hands. He then ran back down, hard fast strike, soft fast strike, hearing each note of the Chickering articulate, bright and sharp as a sunburst.

Yes, today he needed the piano; the music that now rode his soul and filled his mind was that of love, the sweet anguish that stretched his heart full to bursting. He felt it might shatter in his chest, so strong was the pain. The aria has sprung complete to his hands, to his throat, the words appearing entire upon the tablature behind his eyes.

Erik began to sing. The Chickering thundered beneath his hands, the melody spiraling up the octaves. He sang a lover's sweet lamentation, of passion and pain, of loneliness and empty arms. Eyes closed, he threw back his head and filled his world with the glorious agony that was his Christine, allowing it to soar to the very gates of Heaven...

_And she was there, beloved Christine, standing before him._ She stood beside the piano with her glorious hair upon her tender shoulders, her smile warm with the sweetness that was Christine. She had been here with him for so long this time, her voice melding with his. Her hands were warm upon his shoulder when she stood close to better see the music, her face close to his. A day and a night she had filled his world with her innocent beauty, singing to him through the night, singing for him, while her small hands stroked his forehead and caressed his battered cheek. He had lay unmoving, transfixed, and reveled in the sweep of her fingers as they lovingly brushed his crossed hands, and her whispered words of love filled his ears.

The music now fell to a supplicant's plea, his fingers caressing the keys _rubato_, as if tapping gently upon Heaven's door. His voice softened in timbre, still flooding the ward with its unearthly beauty. His body rocked with the music that carried him beyond the cracked grey walls of the small cell he inhabited, containing only a large metal bucket and the dirty waste wool mattress where he sat.


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

I had packed all three of my dove-grey work dresses, which were of medium-weight chino, with round collars, long straight sleeves, and skirts that went to the instep. I wrapped in tissue my 'best' dresses; the shoulder baring grey-green taffeta gown with the self-overskirt that was worn at my younger brother's wedding, the cerulean blue watered silk with tiny puffed sleeves and flounced hem. I had several cotton chintz dresses in variations that served as day wear, and my favorite masculine-cut suits, one of grey linen, and one in brown, and a dressier Garibaldi jacket suit of green jacguard, trimmed in the military fashion in black satin, with a matching skirt. After a bout of wishful thinking, I packed both my riding habits, spring green muslin for hot weather, rust wool for cool.

I had not a corset to my name, having thrown the last one away the day I started work at the Elysian Fields Home in London. However, as spare as I'd become, top to bottom, a corset would be offered little to occupy it. My stock of small clothes, stockings and chemise were packed next, my few bits of jewelry, and reticules, the odds and ends that one collects. This filled the travel trunk to a point just below full. I then added two pair of Kavenaugh's cast off brown whipcord trousers, three small dark brown men's shirts, a belt, heavy socks, and my heavier riding boots. I was, after all, going on an 'adventure' and it would only be right to include my adventuring clothes.

Two complete changes of clothing were set aside, along with five days worth of various items to be carefully packed in one of the leather cases. I did not know what sort of speed de'Chagny would put to our travel, but I felt confident that we would stop long enough at some point daily where I might wash and change to fresh clothes.

I then wrote a pithy letter to my brothers in London regarding my new situation, and placed it and a good bit of change on the table for Dora, the Librarian, to post for me. I also gave her the keys, and permission to help herself to whatever of my remaining belongs she liked, and give the rest away. Mudkins went to her as well, to serve as her rodent control amongst the books of the library.

My lovely piano went to Mrs. McCarthy, the church organist who was my piano teacher, to give to whichever of her students deserved it most.

Lyric became a gift for Dr. Smythe's wife, who had often declared her a 'smooth goer and totally game'. There were many tears shed that evening, most over the loss of my beloved cat and mare, and precious little sleep that night.

Long before the sun broke free of the eastern horizon, I was standing before the library, my travel trunk and two stout leather bags at the curb. A basket containing a few books, sketchpad, lap quilt and those personal things one must have near was in my hand.

I had dressed carefully for travel in a straight skirt and matching men's-cut jacket that belted at my waist, made of cotton duck in fawn that would not wrinkle easily. I wore an ecru cotton blouse beneath with upright collar, my sensible work shoes…indeed, all of my shoes were 'sensible'…and laid an ivory shawl over my shoulder to cover my upswept and pinned hair if needed. In an attempt to reduce the freckles that covered my round Irish nose, I had applied a light dusting of powder to my face, and then, in disgust, had wiped it off. I looked as if I had been pushed face-first into the flour bin thanks to my poor efforts in protecting my face from the sun. I would live with my freckles.

Eventually an open carriage driven by a man in de'Chagny livery pulled before the curb. I helped him load my luggage, despite his loud, French protestations, and put myself aboard before he could hand me up. I was feeling rather cantankerous due to lack of sleep and a general misanthropic attitude, and this poor man was my first victim. He delivered me to Brighton Dock, and hustled to remove my trunk and cases and load them onto a handcart located by the channel boat pier. We therein marched out to the ship, the "Greenock", a Scottish-built Clyde Steamer, and I saw my luggage safely wheeled across by a talented crewman, over the narrow plank that stretched from pier to boat rail. Idly I wondered how many times a wheel slipped off the plank, depositing somebody's luggage in the English Channel.

I saw de'Chagny straight away standing on the forward deck of our ship, looking like thunder and glaring at his watch.

Mr. Kahn parted company with us in Brighton, although he met us at the dock. He bent over my hand, in the French way, and graciously pronounced himself pleased to have met me, which became the second time he had spoken within my hearing. His smile was warm, but he openly took the time to search my face from chin to forehead, and then stare into my eyes, and it seemed he read my very soul. Predictably, I felt heat travel across my cheeks; it was really becoming quite tiresome, this turning colors from a gentleman's regard. Kahn adjourned to the top of the pier with Monsieur Abrigaun for a quick private conference.

The Vicomte de'Chagny seemed to have reservations about Mr. Kahn, by the look he cast the gentleman's back. I had realized Kahn represented someone other than the Vicomte in his attendance to our meeting, and I wondered if the Vicomtess has sent her own trusted agent, for reasons I did not really wish to explore.

We were underway well after the expected 2nd hour of afternoon. The water crossing over the English Channel was uneventful, and wonderfully reminiscent of my twelfth year, when nearly everything my family owned, including livestock and four dogs, made the crossing from Dun Laaghaire to Caernarton, Wales, across the Muir Eireann (Irish Sea).

Mindful of the risk I took of a painful burn from exposure to sunny waters, I spent hours sitting beneath the viewing deck, watching the patterns thrown upon the choppy water by shifting clouds across the sun. I do believe I dozed off a time or two while comfortably ensconced in a deck chair. Either Abrigaun or de'Chagny stayed close by, I suppose to keep me from diving off the starboard rail upon the realization of what I had just undertaken. More like, to keep any fellow channel crossers of ill repute from accosting me. There were a few persons on board for which the appellation 'questionable' would not have been questionable at all, if that makes any sense.

Four hours out from the English coast, de'Chagny joined me at the top deck and we watched the sun sink below the misty wraith that was left of the English coast. He greeted me politely, then stood several feet away as if waiting for me to decide to acknowledge him. I finally grimaced, pushed my self away from the rail and carefully stood still until I found my 'sea legs'.

"Madame Butler, I believe we need to talk," de'Chagny said in perfect English, as he offered a hand when our ship shuddered unpredictably.

I demurred his aid with a smile. "I can keep my balance, Monsieur. I ride horses; surely I can ride a boat!"

"Ah, Madame, I've served in the Navy. You'd be surprised how many fine horsemen hang on to the rail during sea duty!" He smiled teasingly. "Of course, for many it is not just their balance they are losing!"

Well, that was clever, and we both laughed, and the reserve between us was eased.

I put my hand to his arm, finally accepting his aid to keep my balance in the face of a constantly shifting boat. " Monsieur, I cannot tell you how relieved I am to see you smile. I'd feared it was a lost art for you!"

"Mademoiselle Butler, I am sorry for my ill temper, but I sorely miss my wife. She is ever on my mind, and constantly I worry for her. It is now, for that reason I have sought you out, as I would have your counsel."

I gestured towards the bench that circled the wheelhouse. "Perhaps it would be best we sit, then. I cannot promise I am stable cargo if asked to both stand and think!" De'Chagny tucked my arm firmly about his and walked me to the bench. Unlike me, his stride never wavered when our ship hiccupped in one direction or another.

We sat, my basket between us, and de'Chagny sighed heavily, and looked at his hands. "Mademoiselle, I love my wife, as I have since the very moment we first met, so many years ago. There is nothing I would not do for Christine; she has only to ask and it is exactly what I would do." Closing his eyes, he continued, "It is for her that I am willing to accept the trouble and expense of saving the life of this miserable man who nearly killed us both and who now haunts Christine's every moment. This is twice I have stayed the hand delivering his rightful death. Twice!" He fisted one hand into the other fiercely.

"Monsieur, your consideration of your wife's feelings is admirable. However, I do not understand why the Vicomtess feels this man deserves mercy. If he did naught but frighten and press her with unwelcome attentions, why does she feel she owes him anything? Why does she feel responsibility for his egregious behavior?"

De'Chagny laughed wryly and softly asked, "Why, indeed, Madame? You have said it plainly, and I applaud your insight. Why does my wife feel she bears fault for the behavior of this...this..._'monstre mauvais_?'" De'Chagny shook his head, and rubbed his eyes. I wondered when de'Chagny slept last.

He continued, "I have given much thought to this, and my mind whispers most unwelcome thoughts, even as my heart assures me that I am the one she truly loves." De'Chagny stopped here, and looked to me, as if he wanted me to note that particularly. "I do know that the...that this man was, for many years, her father, teacher, and sometimes her only friend."

"Of course," he continued with a frown, "he misrepresented himself as sent by her dead father to watch over her. Can you believe it? Only the eight-year-old she was would believe such '_merde_', but she continued to believe it for years after. He used trickery and deceit to then keep her loyalty, spinning a web of control around her with his voice and words. And he is able to twist her thinking by singing to her... Yes, I am serious, Mademoiselle, by _singing to her_. I actually watched it happen as did many..."

At this point De'Chagny seemed to catch himself, and smoothly continued to the next point in his thoughts. "It is still under serious investigation as to whether he killed for her, or at least, killed those that he thought might have hurt her."

"Good Heavens, Monsieur de'Chagny, you make him sound a right miserable specimen, indeed. And I am to 'save' this wretch so that the Vicomtess can feel a release of obligation?" I did not want to judge this man on de'Chagny's word alone, but the story did sound very damning.

He smiled ruefully. "And that is why you need to talk to Christine, Mademoiselle Butler. It is, after all, her feelings we are trying to assuage, and I cannot say that I am unbiased in my opinion of the man. Please, I pray you will not take anything I have said here as being more than ONE side of the story."

"And, indeed, Monsieur de'Chagny, this story will have THREE sides." I smiled warmly. "I can only hope that in talking about her feelings for this man, she can find some ease in her unhappiness for him. Be assured that I will do all I can to reassure her."

Privately I thought, 'Oh, Christine, you sound a silly chit!'

Thinking in that direction brought her present emotional situation to mind… "Is the Vicomtess also being helped in some way with her...ah...suicidal feelings? There is someone with her at all times, am I correct?"

Obviously, this is where the boy's worst fears lay. He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed vigorously. Looking at him now I could see that Raoul de'Chagny was not long past his boyhood. It softened my thinking of him, just a bit. We both sat quietly as he collected himself.

Sighing, he raised his head and admitted "As you can see, Madame, I am near insane myself with fear for my dear Christine. My sisters are with her, and I made it clear she was to be closely watched and never left alone."

"Monsieur, I don't know the Vicomtess at all, so I can only speak with experience from my years of working with emotionally fragile women. It can be that despite the most loving of family about her, your lady feels she must hold her feelings of depression and pain inside, to avoid embarrassment. This would just exacerbate her melancholy and the result could be as unfortunate as you fear."

Earnestly wishing to make my point, I leaned over upon my poor basket. "Please consider locating a female companion who can offer her a place to lay her burdens without feeling foolish or childish before your family. I can contact several nursing professionals and nursing organizations in Paris, who would help you find such a person for the Vicomtess."

De'Chagny looked startled at my vehemence, but nodded in agreement. "Madame, what you say makes much sense. My parents intimidate Christine, and my sisters are so very much older than she. I have not given much thought to anything but getting the...ah...Uncle out of Rois Home Pour la Défectuosité and on his way to Italy. I thought that would solve the entire problem, apparently." He grimaced and growled, "I have been blind, have I not?"

I could only shake my head. "Monsieur, it is a rare and useful trait to concentrate on the task at hand. Too many times it is the last thing to receive due attention. Accept my admiration for your focus, and allow me to aid you in finding a proper companion for the Vicomtess once we reach Paris. Moreover, let us not speak again of what you have not done, and concentrate on what we can do. Agreed?"

His smile returned. "You give me hope in all this, and I am surprised to find that Abrigaun, for all his theatrics," and here a roll of the eyes, "actually knows of what he speaks. I would welcome your help in making arrangements for a nurse companion for my wife."

I could not help it...I reached for his hand, and clasped it in both of mine. "Young man, you are a remarkable person, and your wife blessed indeed to be so loved. I look forward to talking to the Vicomtess and will do my best, in all ways, to provide her with the peace of mind she desperately needs."

Releasing his hand with a soft pat, I picked up my basket, "And now, Monsieur, I will retire to my 'closet and rack.' This morning came early and the prior night's sleep proved elusive."

De'Chagny stood, helped me find my feet, and then escorted me securely to my cabin door. "Mademoiselle Butler, I will wish you a good evening. Tomorrow we should see landfall by mid-afternoon. Paris will be three full days' travel by coach."

"Ah, Paris. I do so look forward. Good evening to you, Monsieur." I curtsied, and received a very nice tip of the hat.

I retired for the evening to my tiny cabin, and after an evening meal of cheese and an apple from my basket, I retired to my narrow bunk. I found the bunk to be somewhat a trial with its side rails and lumpy mattress. However, if only for the extreme comfort to be found buried beneath thick blankets while cold sea-scented air tickled the nose, it was divine. One is rocked to sleep most delightfully.


	6. Chapter Five

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

It was very late afternoon of the following day when my travel trunk and two cases, along with those of my fellow travelers, were vigorously loaded into the box of a private coach. We rolled out of the Le Havre' docks, bound for an amiable place to spend the night; De'Chagny looked furious at the delay, and I could almost sympathize. So close and yet so far. No doubt he wished to merely grab a fast horse and fly to his wife's side. Instead he was obliged to accompanying a bony old spinster across the countryside in a damnably slow coach.

I am sure if he would have asked us, Abrigaun and I both would have agreed to travel through the night, provided the horses could still be regularly changed or rested. However, we stopped at the small town of Lillibonne just after dark, and accepting the situation, I was more than ready for my bed.

Imagine my horror when I found, upon turning down the quilts, the bed sheets quite filthy and alive with tiny specks that hopped and flipped about like fleas. And indeed, because they were fleas! Since I had yet to do anything but put one hand on the counterpane to check the bed, I immediately grabbed my basket and case and fled the room. I heatedly called for the innkeeper and demanded an accounting for the livestock infesting the dirty sheets on my bed!

The innkeeper was French. Our discussion immediately broke down upon his admitting that he could not understand half of what I said. I fumed. He ran to fetch his wife, who was English.

Thinking back I should have known what a mistake that would be. My Irish brogue is about as annoying to an Englishman, as anything English is to an Irishman.

De'Chagny was not amused when I demanded we immediately depart and find an inn where the sheets were not considered pristine because 'just one bloke has slept in that bed.' The innkeeper's wife was adamant in her refusal to discuss either a switch to a clean bed, or refund of the money paid, and furthermore, "Damned if I'll find anuffer' bed for the likes 'o you deary, just 'cause you thinks you be too good 'n' all to sleep where better'n you already has!"

Horses were set to the coach, bags reboxed with angry velocity, while subtle threats were laid to the innkeeper by Monsieur Abrigaun, ever the lawyer. It was no surprise when the good man returned every penny of the Vicomte's money, despite his lovely mate's roar of indignation. No doubt Monsieur Innkeeper spent his night in the flea-ridden bed!

We did not stop that night, and I hoped Monsieur de'Chagny was happy. I dozed in the carriage seat that was hardest to sleep in—my back was to the horses. Abrigaun stayed in the coach also, and may have been a bit shocked by my preparations for 'bed'. I asked him to kindly avert his eyes whilst I removed my boots and stockings, unpinned and braided my hair, cleaned my face, neck and hands, and finally my teeth with a cloth soaked in drinking water. If I snored from my cramped position and lack of a pillow, Monsieur Abrigaun was gentleman enough to never to mention it.

We spent the next two and one half days rolling across the French countryside towards Paris. I had supplied myself with several books, my sketchpad, and my favorite lap quilt. De'Chagny' spent most of his time up with the coach driver, and twice demanded an outrider sit with the driver while he rode their horse. When he was forced to actually ride in the coach, he and Abriguan argued and cheated each other at cards. Twice Abrigaun jumped out of the coach yelling for the Vicomte to come with his sword and 'give satisfaction' for whatever the insult. De'Chagny seemed to be enjoying the return of his evil temper, after our brief _'réunion des esprits_' on the channel crossing. He scowled whenever our eyes met, which insured that I studiously ignored him as much as possible. Naturally, I found myself without the nerve to ask him any further questions about the mysterious man I would be caring for.

It was Abrigaun and myself who occupied the coach most often and I am ashamed to say I quickly came to enjoy his company. I found him to be well read and full of fascinating stories of the French aristocracy, as well as those who hung on their coattails; the _récemment riche_ and favor-seekers, as well as the dancers, singers, and _membres de pression_. He professed a passion for the Opera and its music and was a box subscriber for both the 'Palais Garnier, and the Opéra-Comique. For two days he regaled me with stories and gossip about all things 'Parisian', and I'm afraid I quite forgot to worry and wonder about the mysterious insane gentleman.

It was my sketchbook that burst the bubble. Abrigaun was thoroughly intrigued by my ability to look at something and apply my vision to the flat paper with a mere pencil. And so it was, that on our second full day of rolling across the French countryside, I sketched him in several poses while covertly admiring his strong Gallic good looks.

Later while stopped to change horses and stretch our legs he was first into the coach and found my sketchbook open. Being a lawyer, he shamelessly snooped, and immediately admitted his _crime de curiosité_ once I returned to the coach. He was effusive in his praise, although modest when faced with proof of his handsome profile and winsome smile. He then requested one drawing so that he might give it to his wife.

I obliged him with all of the sketches, stowed my sketchbook in the bottom of my basket, and began a serious preoccupation with my newest purchase, a modest little novel by Mary Shelly called "Frankenstein." Mortified unto death with my naiveté', I chastened myself for being such a fool and retreated to polite smiles and monosyllabic responses when Abrigaun pressed for renewal of our former camaraderie. I accepted it had all been my lack of romantic exposure to men in general, and French men in particular that had set me on my errant path. I may have shed a tear or two in my hard little bed at the inn where we chose to break our trip that evening. I think I missed my sweet cat, Mudkins.

Despite Abrigaun's polite conversational gambits the next day, I was determined to keep my foolish tongue in check, and concentrate on reading my book. He withdrew to dozing with his head pressed to the padded side of the coach, a curious look of hurt on his face. On that, the fourth day of our little adventure, we reached the Left Bank of Paris. Tired, dusty and thoroughly sick of quaint inns with questionable beds, and travel with my present companions, we pulled through the de'Chagny' gates just as the sun touched the horizon.

The de'Chagny estate lay just outside the southwestern outskirts of Paris near the commune of Meudon, in the hilly woods beside the Seine River. The de'Chagny mansion was built in the Palladian style, with low, square facades, elaborate rooflines and a courtyard entrance surrounded by the gracefully rising walls of two low wings. Faced with the pellucid white Parian marble found in the stone quarries of Greece, the mansion glowed rapturously in the fiery colors of the setting sun. It was a vision of the kind that makes an artist lust for canvas and paint, and the godly ability to stop the march of the sun.

The hour of our arrival found the Vicomtess napping. Deciding to clean the week's dust from ourselves before meeting for dinner, I found myself being fussed at by a tiny French maid, who informed me her name was Mariette. Disconcertingly, she insisted on pulling on and pointing at my travel clothes (the fourth blouse and second suit in the trip) and then to a door at the back of the lovely bedroom we stood in.

I was finding Mariette hard to understand, as her speech was rapid-fire and I caught no more than a hint of what she was saying. Upon requesting in French, that she speak slowly to this humble party, she cocked her head and squinted one eye in apparent pain.

It had become glaringly apparent after trying my French, both speech and comprehension, on just about every human I'd met to date in France, that I was obviously speaking the 'insane gibberish' version of French.

Finally allowing her to just tow me through that door to which she seemed hell-bent, I immediately stood transfixed. It was a BATHING ROOM, of such perfection that were I but the swooning type, I would have done so, just to demonstrate my awe and admiration. The entire room was marble, including the large Roman-style tub set inside the back wall, with water available through spigots installed inside the tub itself. Mariette gave the spigots a twist and water gushed out—HOT water as well as cold.

I think I may have crossed myself. I had never before experienced the 'modern' bath.

I was invited to sniff and inspect several jars of bath salts and bowls of soft soaps; upon my smiles of appreciation for the lavender chamomile scented salts, she promptly threw a handful into the filling tub. She then showed me large fluffy towels, of thick cotton, the likes of which I'd never seen.

Each towel was huge, at least two metres of wide, soft cotton fabric. There were small cloths of the same fabric for washing oneself; two were laid upon the side of the tub. Moving next to the large mirror that graced the wall over the long, elegant washstand with its large square crockery bowl, she opened an adjacent tall cabinet and showed me MORE towels, as well as cosmetics, scented powders, and so on.

Mariette next drew me to a small alcove, and there, as quaint as could be, sat a commode, a potty, _le toilette_. She pulled on a chain that depended from a tank affixed to the wall above, and the bowl was washed out with a flow of water, then emptied. I was given a rather risqué pantomime of how to use the large box of linen slips, carefully stacked in a metal box, which were thin but soft, used to clean oneself after elimination. My teacher was adamant in her instruction that these were to be disposed of by dropping the used material into a covered china box beside the toilet, NOT the toilet. I assured her in butchered French that "_Je comprends_" and she smiled at my blushing face.

We returned at last to the bedroom and Mariette opened the travel trunk and both leather cases. She pointed to the bath, pointed to the clothing in the cases, and pointed to the bedroom door off the hall. At my vacant look, she pantomimed bathing, with much scrubbing and cleaning of the ears, underarms, and buttocks, drying herself, again with much mugging and gyration, and finally dressing. She then moved to the "cheval glace" in the corner, twirled herself about, flipped an imaginary fan at me, and minced to the door. Her performance was masterful, and at my sincere applause, she curtsied as prettily as I'd ever seen. "_Brava! Bravissima_!"

What a lovely and talented person my Mariette was! I tried to express some of this in my damnable French, and she politely put her fingers in her ears.

Returning to the work at hand I pulled my second best dress, the green taffeta, out of the trunk, and my maid and I plowed through the rest of the contents until I'd located my new blonde' leather boots. Smalls and a chemise, stockings and a clean handkerchief, and I felt I was ready. I know the dress did little for my formless figure, but it was nearly new, bared most of my shoulders and a bit of my bony chest, and the tiny cap sleeves showed my well-shaped arms to advantage. Mariette, speaking slowly, told me she would press the dress carefully. She shut off the water to the tub, folded the gown over her arm, and gathered my case full of dirty folded clothes and left.

I was not shy about undressing; I started shucking as soon as she turned off the water, and was in the bath, totally submerged to the tip of my nose, within the minute.

How long had it been since I'd felt such silky fragrant water over my entire body? Indeed, had I _ever_ felt such silky fragrant water anywhere on my body? How very long since I'd felt thoroughly cleansed? It had been one dirty, dusty, damnably uncomfortable trip, without facilities to truly refresh oneself. I sat up and inspected the various soaps and unguents arrayed across the back of the tub, and settled on the soft Pears Soap that I had used on more than one patient as a hair soap while working in the Women's Wing. I rubbed it through my hair twice, rinsing from the tap with cold water between applications, then pinned my hair up atop my head and concentrated on my body, scrubbing vigorously.

Mariette entered and showed me how to drain and refill the tub and thereby rinse myself of all residues from the soap. While I lolled on the wide low side wrapped in a towel awaiting the tub to refill, she offered to clip and buff my feet! I allowed her to do this, giggling at the tickling sensations. The tub again full, she indicated I should be out within 30 minutes by showing me on the ormolu clock set upon the washstand. Again speaking as if to slow child (which I certainly deserved) she told me she would then come in, do my hair, and dress me for dinner.

An hour later, I felt as if I were a new person. From the top of my head to the soles of my feet, I was clean, scrubbed, brushed, scented and beautifully dressed. Mariette had brushed my hair as we stood outside the French door to the private balcony. The evening's breeze dried it nicely. She then wound my hair on heated metal rods, and after a few minutes pinned the resultant thick curls all over my head. She dropped thin tendrils down my back and beside my ears, after winding them on the rods twice to set the curl. She had repeated several words to me, and I began to understand what she was saying. I blushed. She said, "You have magnificent hair." The superlative sounded somewhat mangled to me, but the meaning was clear.

After going through my bits of jewelry, she put my peridotte and diamond drops in my ears, "These match your eyes, Mademoiselle!" Finally she placed my green silk-net shawl, the one my grandmother had tatted for my mother for her 20th birthday, about my shoulders. I stood before the tall mirror in the bedroom and looked at myself, and was amazed. Mariette had tucked the dress somewhere along the sides inside the wrapped sash so that it was tighter and lower over my chest and emphasized my narrow waist. She had been aghast when she discovered I had no corset, but I think upon seeing my scrawny carcass, she realized that a corset would serve little purpose.

My hair is a red-blonde, streaked with lighter color due to the sun I enjoy far too much. It is very fine, but grows thickly, the result being it works its way out of whatever catchment it's put into and flies about, driving me mad when it ends up in my face or tickling my neck. Braids, buns, and tied securely at the back of the neck are my stock in trades, but my hair will go where it will go eventually.

But tonight my hair, for all its lack of any true color, was suddenly afire, with each fat curl glossy and sleek, like thick golden chains heaped upon my head. The tendrils she had pulled down drew attention to my adorned ears and long neck. I did not know the woman who gazed back at me from the Cheval glass. I closed my eyes and then popped them back open, several times. Mariette smiled behind her hand, and I laughed aloud at myself. Mariette, again as if she spoke to a youngling, said, "You are a very lovely woman, Mademoiselle." I worked it out in my head, and with a prickling feel behind my eyes, grabbed her and gave her a kiss.

It was worth it just to watch somebody else turn pink for once.

Time was to join the de'Chagny's and Abrigaun for dinner. Mariette checked me over carefully, folding one of my handkerchiefs inside my sash, and tugging at the neckline of my dress… "This, it is to be here…not about one's ears!"

Laughing, I followed her out of the bedroom door and down the long wide hallway lined with statuary and gleaming furniture. Turning to me, Mariette swept her hand gracefully across her body to end gracefully pointing down the staircase that terminated at the Great Hall. Her meaning was fairly obvious, but a young man immediately sprang into position at the bottom of the staircase. "_Vous attendant_," she whispered, speaking slowly and then curtsied to me. I wondered idly if Mariette would like to join me as my personal maid, at a small family estate on the Tuscan coast of Italia. The small detail of a madman living with us also would, no doubt, be of little consequence to such a clever woman as she, if I were any judge of character.

The young man in de'Chagny livery at the bottom of the motioned and led me down an endless hall to a set of doors that were at least five metre's in height, covering a doorway wide enough to drive through a draft team and dray. He opened the doors and bowed, moving back to allow me to step past. I found myself in a banquet hall that had to be at least twice as large as my family's largest entire home. There was no one else in the room.

I walked to the center, and slowly turned, rapt with wonder. There were pink granite fireplaces in matched sets on each of the four walls, and a chandelier hanging over the center of the room that looked as big as the travel coach we arrived in. Everywhere there were lights, with gas wall sconces running along all four walls, and huge gilt-framed mirrors arrayed between them. Every wall in the room was a white that carried just a hint of pink.

The trim, at top, bottom, corners, and surrounding the large gilt mirrors was gold leafed, with ornate carvings of leafy branches and stylized flowers. The walls and mirrors reflected the chandelier's hundreds of clear gas globes, and crystal pendants, depending from each globe, refracted the light into a million colors. Gilted and carved chairs lined the walls along two sides. Opulent pink satin divans, dripping with golden braid and massive gold tassels, bracketed the area before each set of fireplaces on opposite ends of the room. Each divan held nests of golden brocade and pink satin pillows, and small tables were scattered everywhere, again gilded and carved. The entire effect was that of a Christmas box turned outside in.

Exactly in the middle of all this was a white Birchwood table that was so long it looked distorted. The chairs were of matching wood, with gold brocade seats. The tablecloth was stark white with a gold brocade center cloth that went from one end to the other. The table had been set for four people, thankfully all at one end of the table. The table service was gold, as were the chargers beneath each white china setting. I stood with my mouth open staring about the room, only to catch myself and hope I had not been noticed. It would not do to appear as a trout rising to the fly after all Marietta's hard work!

"Mademoiselle Butler, please, I would like to introduce you to my wife..." That was de'Chagny, and I sought them in the cavernous room, only to find them standing at the entrance off the Great Hall. Obviously, I was in the wrong place.

"Forgive me, my lord" I curtsied immediately, stuttering, feeling the dratted heat start in my cheeks. "The footman brought me to this room, and I…I just..."

De'Chagny grinned. "Mademoiselle, fret not. Monty and I stepped out for just a second to greet my wife." Turning he reached for a white hand just appearing in the door, and gently pulled the Vicomtess into the room. Abrigaun trotted in after.

De'Chagny introduced us; I immediately curtsied, as did she, very prettily.

My first impression of Christine, Vicomtess de'Chagny was that of a waif, a lost spirit. Madame de'Chagny was not lacking in height, although still a half-foot shorter than myself, but possessed all the substantiality of eiderdown or dandelion fluff, as if she might fly up in the air at the slightest puff of breath. Her arms were slim, her shoulders slight, and the hand that reached to clasp mine was small, smooth and warm, with long elegant fingers.

All the generous curves and womanly roundness that pregnancy bestows was tastefully displayed in the Vicomtess' fashionable burgundy moiré' silk gown. She had the whitest skin I have ever seen, but soft color adorned her cheeks, real or artifice, I cannot say. Her eyes were of a warm golden brown, with readily apparent pupils, straight brows over sleepy eyelids that she enhanced with a soft wash of kohl. Unlike my bulbous Irish sròn, Christine's nose was small and finely modeled, over full lips that seemed outsized for her small, gamine face.

Christine carried herself with a timid grace, an uncertainty I saw as a lack of confidence, but no doubt, men found entrancing. Her greeting was delivered with the same hesitant quality, starting each utterance low in her throat, and strengthening her voice as she continued.

I could easily see why two men fought to the death over her, why love of her drove one man mad; this was the woman every man desired. A woman/child, the fawn-eyed temptress, with a voice that had just the slightest velvet purr beneath the innocence. I think it would be hugely difficult to be Christine de'Chagny.

Her most obvious physical attribute at this point was the hugely child-swollen abdomen that strained against the front of her gown and gave her occasion to lean heavily on de'Chagny's arm a time or two. Obviously, she was not just pregnant, but well and truly gone, with days, not months left to go.

Raoul de'Chagny seated his wife to his right, and me to his left, and Abriguan sat next to the Vicomtess. This arrangement suited me, as I did not wish to be knocking elbows with Abriguan after pointedly ignoring him for the past day. Of course, I noted that he had been no little surprised when he first saw me this evening, and I was woman enough to feel gratified by that. I gave him a dazing smile at the first opportunity and then pointedly returned to ignoring him.

De'Chagny motioned the first course to be served. Immediately many people dressed in the crimson de'Chagny livery entered the room. They placed small bowls of sauces and plates of bread on the table, ladled soup into our bowls, replacing that with a plate, then another plate, and so on. I knew enough to place my napkin upon my lap, and which spoon to use for the consommé, which fork to use for the meat, the dessert, and so on. Bless you, Mam!

De'Chagny meanwhile asked me what I thought of the banquet room. Nonplussed, I dithered a bit, at a loss for appropriate superlatives. Finally looking at the massive chandelier that hung over our heads, with its array of bright globes and color-shot pendants, I said, "It's as if the entire room were dressed to attend the Queen's Coronation Ball." The Vicomtess immediately laughed and applauded, saying, "Yes! That's it exactly, isn't it!"

"You speak truer than you know, dear lady!" said de'Chagny. "My mother loves to decorate, as she says it 'keeps the stone pile from looking moldy.' This room was done just a few years ago, when the 'Royal Wedding' look was '_dernier cri'._ Maman adores gold, and pink was 'the color' that year. She thought it would light up the room. Of course, it's seldom used now, as my parents have spent the majority of the social season in Switzerland these last three years. We no longer have the formal entertaining as we did when I was an unmarried man. Thus the banquet room is sadly neglected."

He reached for his wife's hand, and smiled. "The Vicomtess and I usually just take our meals in the small breakfast 'salon these days. And the food is still warm when you get it."

"This is lovely. I just cannot imagine having a room of this size. I've been in smaller ballrooms.."

"Oh!" Christine interjected with a gasp and a laugh. "Then perhaps I should show you the ballroom! It dwarfs this, and is done completely in blue and silver, with lots of kissing cherubs and scandalously naked ladies!"

I told her I would certainly look forward to that. "A woman can never have too many good decorating ideas!" I then giggled, gulped and turned pink. I was getting silly, I think, thanks to nerves. And just perhaps a bit too much of the dinner wine...

De'Chagny turned in his chair and pointed to the fireplaces against the closest wall. "There is a painting up in the 'family' room I could show you with both those fireplaces painted in it. Standing before them is my great grandfather's favorite hunter, Bayoc. Jean-Francois' Millett, who was a popular portraiturist back in the early 1800's, painted the thing. He actually painted Great Grandfather's horse while the beast was standing there, right before those two fireplaces."

We laughed and Christine stood, signaling dinner was over, and it was time for the ladies to leave the gentlemen to their cigars and port.


	7. Chapter Six

**Chapter 6**

Once we were out the doors she turned and clasped my hands. "I do hope you won't mind if we go to my private suite. I know you wish to talk to me, and I don't want us to be disturbed by the gentlemen while we talk."

I agreed, and she turned, retaining hold of one of my hands, which she held until we reached her private sitting room located in the south wing of the 'maison. She talked as we went, "Did Raoul tell you anything about the de'Chagny estate?" I shook my head, and she continued. "The main part, here in the center, is built over the site of an old Roman villa, built during occupation by Rome. The Celts roamed this area, and the name of the town, Meudon, is derived from the Celt name Moldum. Both wings were built in the 1700's by the brother-in-law of Louis the XVIth, the Sun King. This man was beheaded by the mobs during the French Revolution in 179-something, and his lands given to the de'Chagny's by Napoleon Bonaparte I."

"Are you totally bored by all this?" She turned, a lopsided smile upon her face. I felt my reserve begin to thaw; she really was quite unpretentious, and I grinned in response.

"My lady,one of my secret sins is a shocking tendency to adore old castles and their history. Back in Ireland we have the moldering ruins of Arthurian-era keeps in practically every cow byre."

We both laughed, and she made a rueful face at me. "Please do not allow me to be tedious, I beg of you. There is a book on the history of the site in the library, and I found and read it several months ago. It was fascinating, and I actually went out to visit the old cemetery that is noted on a map in the book. Raoul is now convinced our child will be bookish because it's mother is such a bluestocking." I laughed with her, but privately thought Raoul must have _his_ problems if he can tease his wife so about reading one bloody book.

The Vicomtess lead me through her bedroom, and large dressing room, all done in the warm dark reds and burgundies of her dress. An arched passageway lined with windows on one side, and small watercolour paintings on the other lead into what would be called the conservatory in an English home. Two walls were of windows that went from floor to within a foot of the high ceiling, curtained in cream lace drapes, now pulled shut for the evening. Several potted trees and long tubs of geraniums were set before them. There was a small fireplace opposite with a very handsome set of love seats upholstered in deep blue brocade at each side of the hearth. The Vicomtess apparently knew how to knit, as a started project sat with needles stuck through upon a side table. Several books were on another, but I could not make out the titles. A small lady's piano was pushed against the farthest wall in a dark corner, almost as if it were being shunned.

I could not help myself; I walked immediately to the piano and gently struck a key. The Vicomtess' gave me a stiff look, surprising me with the irritation in her face. My rueful shock at her reaction being written across my face, she put her hand at her forehead, and then looked at me remorsefully. "Oh, my. That poor thing as not been played in...many months." She seemed flustered, and turned away.

I felt an ass; as if I had just committed a _faux pau_ of egregious proportions, and immediately apologized. "Excuse me, my lady, please! I do not know why, but I just had to go touch a key." I gave her a sickly contrite look when she turned back to me. "I have not played for...five entire days now, and I do miss my piano."

The Vicomtess immediately came to me and grabbed my hands. "Please, do play if you wish. I have not had the heart to do so myself." I demurred, feeling ill with mortification, and at the sudden distress in her manner…the sadness in her eyes. The Vicomtess wandered over to the dark windows, moving the lace to look out into the dark.

I realized that I needed to just get on with things, for both our sakes.

"This will not do, my lady." I stood by the closest loveseat, and patting the plump upholstery, cajoled her to sit; "Please, let us sit down and get our questions out of the way. It is getting late, and I am sure you are longing for your bed."

She turned her face from the window and gave me a small half-smile, saying, "I am sure it is you who are wishing for your bed, Mademoiselle Butler. You have just arrived from your trip, and I know of the discomfort sleeping in road inns entails. You must be exhausted." Hand to her abdomen, she added, "I can seldom seek my bed before midnight. The child becomes so active; I fear I will tear open from its busy little limbs pushing out from my body. I'll ring for tea and we will talk."

I sat. The Vicomtess moved to the bell cord and pulled, but returned to stand at the window, and I wondered if she waited for something besides tea. Finally, she joined me on the loveseat. "I can promise you Mademoiselle, there will not have been anyone using the sheets before you! And no bugs, either!" She laughed at my rueful expression.

"I do look forward to a decent night's rest, my lady. And your husband was not upset with me at all, I'm thinking, for putting us back on the road that night. My little fit put us eight hours sooner here."

"I am sure he was impatient to get home." Carefully arranging her skirt so that it would fall comfortably about her pregnancy, she sat down and drew her legs up beneath her skirts. "Sometimes he is still just a little boy, and his temper can be uneven when he is stressed."

"I know I was very likelyadismal grumpby this morning." I smiled at her nervous expression, then held up my hand as if to stop any further talk of her husband and our travel experiences.

"Now, please let me assure you, before you say another word, that although I am in the employ of your husband, I am still bound by my vows of confidence. This covers all things a client or patient may tell me.

"Put plainly, my dear lady, whatever you should tell me here goes no further. I am not required to tell your husband, or indeed anyone, anything you tell me. Nor will I. It is very important you know that."

She solemnly nodded her understanding.

"I will be caring for this man for which you feel such a sense of responsibility, with the goal of relieving your feelings of distress over his present circumstances. I will do with the intent of helping him as best I might, _whatever_ hissituation may be. I know the man is currently locked up, and is considered insane. This, naturally, tells me _nothing _about him. Are you willing to talk to me about him?"

The Vicomtess bit her lip and again her eyes went to the darkened windows. I could do nothing but wait. She finally turned to me and said, "Please, yes, let us talk of this, and have done. I feel I am going to break both Raoul's heart and mine if I continue on like this."

At that very moment there was a soft tap on the door, and a gentleman in crimson livery preceded a young maid carrying a tray with an elegant blue china tea service upon it. The maid poured for us, both servants excused themselves and left, closing the door with the gentlest of clicks. This gave me time to map at least a rudimentary campaign for the information I felt I needed.

"My lady, the Vicomte gave me an _edited_ version of the events preceding your marriage. He was not complementary at all of the gentleman who beset you both. I understand he is an uncle, an elderly gentleman who is in some way related to you...

"No, no... He is _not _related to me. He is the…brother of the woman who took me in when I was orphaned. No, the Angel...oh!" The Vicomtess put one hand to her lips, and closed her eyes, as if collecting herself to continuing. "I called him the 'Angel' at first, because when he first came to me, that is exactly what I thought he was. Mademoiselle, my dear father died on my eighth birthday, and my mother died when I was four. I became an orphan with no family anywhere when my father died.

"My ballet instructor, Madam Antoinette Giry, at the...academy...I attended took me in as her foster daughter. Still, I felt I would die of the pain of losing my father, and I did nothing but cry and grieve for him for weeks.

"When my father was dying he told me he would forever watch over me from heaven, and I could just think of him, and he would be there, with me. He then told me that he would send an angel to watch over me. But night after night I cried in my bed in the girls' dormitory, because I did not _see _my father, think of him as I might. And the angel he'd promised had not appeared to care for me. I guess I cried so much that the other girls who shared my dorm room complained. I was moved to a small private apartment, near to Madam Giry's, until Madam could figure out what to do for me.

"It was at this time the...the Angel...appeared, or rather his voice appeared to me. I was so frightened because I knew that Madame Giry could not afford to pay the rent on the additional rooms for me, and I had been left with nothing but my father's violin after his burial costs were paid. I just knew I would soon be going to an orphanage, or be kicked out into the streets. I do believe I was ready to physically collapse from nerves and exhaustion and fear.

"On the very worst day, the day I overheard Madame Giry tell the school manager that she was unable to continue paying for my private rooms..."

Christine stopped, and her eyes overflowed. I immediately handed her my handkerchief. She wiped the tears, and then smiled tremulously. "That night the Angel came as I cried in my lonely room, and he sang to me. He sang the very lullaby that I'd sung to my dear father in heaven, night after night, while on my knees in the little chapel below the dormitories. The Angel, however, added words of reassurance, just for me. And his voice...ah, Mademoiselle, his voice! It was as clear and true as a cathedral bell, and it wrapped a blanket of security and peace and well-being 'round me. I slept that night, for the first time in months, the entire night through."

"Madame Giry told me the very next day that a very kind person had paid the year's rent for my small apartment, plus all the fees so I could continue my schooling at the academy. Furthermore, this person would continue to cover my expenses as long as I continued there.

"The Angel sang to me the next night while I lay in my bed, and the next night and so on. Of course, by the third night I was convinced this beautiful voice belonged to the angel my father had promised me.

"My father was a musician, a master on the violin and piano. He sat First Chair Violin at the Paris National Orchestra, played harp, piano, and mandolin. He was asked to give private recitals many times, and I went with him, wherever he played. When I was but a toddler I'd begun to sing along with him as he played his violin, and I am told I had perfect pitch and a natural talent for singing with true coloratura range. My father encouraged me to develop my talent, as he thought that I could be a great _mezzo soprano_ or even _bello canto soprano_ when I matured. He said I would need to be taught how to use my body, just as one is taught to use any instrument, so he started my lessons when I was 6 years of age, a lesson every day. He gave me my last lesson..." again she resorted to the handkerchief to catch her tears, "my last lesson the very day he died. I sang for him, as he held my hand and then he left me..."

Now crying in earnest, Christine sat up only to fold over her swollen middle and bury her face into her hands. I again gave her as much time as she needed to recover. Eventually she was able to dry her face, blow her nose and sit back with some returned sensibility.

I'd nearly had need of a handkerchief myself. I felt inadequate to offer much in the way of comfort. "Christine, I could not imagine life as a child without one's parents. My parents were the very center of my world, for…for so very long. How very difficult this was for you." I hesitated to change the focus of her discourse, but I did not want her getting so upset she decided to stop talking.

"You said that this man...your angel...told you that he was the angel sent by your father...

"No, no Mademoiselle...well, I don't honestly remember now. It may have been that I thought he was the angel sent by my father and he accepted my silly fantasy because it comforted me. I do not think his original thought was to do more than console a suffering child."

Christine acquired just a hint of a watery sneer and added, "However, I know _that_ is not what Raoul believes. He would have everyone think that this man had wanted me for his unnatural desires, even when I was buteight years old!" Christine eyes glittered. "I KNOW my Angel, and he was always very careful to treat me with absolute propriety. I used to cry and ask him to come hold me on nights when I was scared, or when I'd had a nightmare. He never did this, never! He never touched me, not once, until he held my hand to...to lead me into his home. I was 16 years old then, and I had known him, his voice and his kindness and his calm counsel, for half my life. I was not afraid of my Angel! Not...then, anyway..." She folded her lips and fussed with her wedding band.

I shook my head at her and said "My dear Christine, please don't be too hard on your husband. He is so confused about your feelings for this man. He is also very scared for you, and what fretting over this man is doing to you."

She scowled, and I scowled back at her. "I have also never met a man who was more willing to go to the lengths your husband is to alleviate his wife's unhappiness."

"Yes. I know this..." she sighed. "You speak plainly, don't you?"

"Yes. I find it decreases the amount of time one must spend beating the hedgerows to get to the truth. "

Christine cocked her head, and gave me a conciliatory smile, "You do have a funny accent, Mademoiselle Butler. My English has always been excellent as my mother was English and my father insisted I speak English well, long before he would teach me French. From singing all those Italian arias, I've actually learned a good amount of Italian, too. So please, tell me, is your accent English or...?"

I laughed and said, "You mother would have looked down her nose at me, my Lady. I'm as Irish as Pattie's...er..pig."

Christine giggled. "I had no idea that pigs held nationality! And Abrigaun assures me you are becoming very proficient with speaking French with his dedicated tutorage."

Oh, that is very funny, I thought. Rather from listening to Abriguan chatter away like a silly hen, flirting up a storm while his wife…

"No, I am afraid I have linguistic problems with the French language." Herein I lay on the brogue as thick as I could, "I keep rollin' and brrrr-in' where a hard stop or total silence is required. I canna' imagine why so many words 'aire' ended prematurely in that sgeog 'hiiiiiith' sound. What a waste o' gud' ink writin' French; just say it an' use half the letters!"

Christine was now giggling at my shameless mugging.

I finally eased off the brogue and said "Personally, I find the French tongue a trial, my lady." Returning Christine's grin, I added, "Nearly as much as I found the two Frenchmen with whom I traveled!"

Laughing lightened our spirits, but after we'd both shared smiles, and she looked to have regained her emotional equilibrium, I put us back on task.

I reached over and patted her hand, and said "Vicomtess de'Chagny, what is it you expect me to do for your Angel?"

I'd surprised her. She stared at me, and I thought she might be just a bit unhappy with my directness this time.

"I guess I have not given this much thought." Her hands began twisting and rolling over her swollen belly. "I...I want him to find...peace." She shut her eyes tightly. "I want him to let me go, to just...let me...go, if we cannot be again as we once were. As my friend, my teacher, my… If he cannot love me…without…" Her voice rose, just a bit, and she consciously stilled her hands, looking hard at them.

Dropping her voice, she continued, "I feel like I owe him, for all he did for me, for everything that he was for me. I mean, he taught me to sing, to sing with my heart, and to strive for perfection. He taught me to play the piano, even thought I'd taken lessons from my father for years, my Angel taught me how to find the emotion in the music. And he wrote the most beautiful music for me to play! He insured that I had everything I needed and paid for my schooling, and bought me lovely clothes. He also wrote original music that would be for my voice alone; such music, Mademoiselle, music that touches everyone who hears it."

Now the anger was gone, but she dropped her head into her hands, and again we were silent until she could marshal her emotions. "And Mademoiselle, he was wonderful to me. He soothed me with his voice, singing with such beauty. And I cannot tell you the number of times I'd awake from a nightmare, even in the middle of the night, crying and so very scared, and he...was...there. He was there! He'd sing me back to sleep, and my dreams were always pleasant and my spirits restored afterwards."

Holding her hands up, she exclaimed with some passion, "Can you understand why I believed him an angel? And m…my father?"

"And the voice lessons. He started me exactly where my father left off, with the scales and breath control and muscle development exercises. I always knew exactly how well I was doing during the lesson, as he was never shy with his praise. And he could tell on those days when my heart wasn't in the lesson. He would say to me 'Christine, I do not hear your heart today. I believe we should try again tomorrow.' But he would not just leave, no, no, because he would ask me, 'Where is my lovely Christine's mind today?' 'What is troubling beautiful Christine's heart?' And we could talk of my silly, little-girl troubles, and I'd feel so much better. Mademoiselle, I could give you one thousand examples of his kindness and his sensibility in knowing just what I needed. My Angel was just that, an angel, in every sense of the word."

Sighing, she looked to me, and said: "And finally, in order to know my Angel, you need to know this. He is... The reason he stayed out of society, and hid from me... and hid from the entire world... He was...is flawed. One half of his face and part of his upper head are horribly scarred...deformed. He told me he was born this way, and that his own mother would have nothing to do with him, and gave him away to the gypsies...just gave him away, when he was seven years old. He has lived on his own since he was twelve, and except for the friendship he had with Madame Giry, and the...relationship we had, he had spent the whole of his life shut away from the human race."

I saw the pity in her face for this hapless fellow, and I felt I knew the reasons for her fretful guilt. However, this did not mean this man could do as he wished without consequences!

"And why would a scarred face make any difference in the way a man should act, my lady? I do not see how one would have anything to do with the other. Kindness or kidnapping, he is still a citizen of France, and must live by the rules..."

'No, Mademoiselle Butler, you do not understand!" Christine's eyes flashed to mine, and her cheeks pinked with quick anger. "I think that being...deformed, of what his... deformity... did to him, and..."

"And pity, my young friend, can be wonderfully exploited!"

The Vicomtess de'Chagny held up her hand, demanding my silence...

"The Angel is marred on the right side of his face only. If you were to see him from the left side, you would think of him as very attractive, extremely handsome. He dresses well, and speaks as any well-bred and educated gentleman should. You would think he was a lovely man to look upon, Mademoiselle Butler, I assure you. After seeing him without the mask, I can still say that my Angel is a handsome man. Yes, his right cheek, that side of his nose, and around his right eye is horrific to look upon without some... preparation. He has thick dark hair except on the side of his skull from his temple to right behind his ear. There it is patchy and his skin and scalp are bubbled and cratered, almost as if he'd been burned."

"It does sound very sad, but my dear Vicomtess, this does not mean _you_ owe him the life he did not have the courage to go out and make for himself! I have seen men, and women too, who have suffered worse..."

The Vicomtess pinched her lips together and gave me a look that simply stopped my mouth. Very fierce. However, not one to concede easily, I added, "I'm sorry my lady. I have great problems with people who play upon one's good intentions..."

"And I'm sorry Mademoiselle, but I do not accept that my Angel ever did such a thing! You must understand, he was given to a traveling fair as a little boy. By. His. Mother! This is after he was given not one bit of affection. Then he was given over to these...people, who immediately put a sack over his head, and showed him off as the 'devil's child'. His ruined face became something to make women scream and little kids cry!"

The Vicomtess de'Chagny was now gritting her teeth and tears were winding their way down her cheeks, yet again. I decided it was best to hear her out, and let her vent all this anger.

"I do not know what horrors he suffered there, as he has never spoken of it to me. Madame Giry later told me that it would have broken the mind of a weaker man, outright killed anyone else. Mademoiselle Butler; he was but a child! I know that he bears terrible scars from the beatings he endured over his back; he has rope scars on his wrists. For those reasons alone, I can well understand why my Angel was loath to have anything to do with human society!"

I sat quietly, awaiting Christine's signal she was finished. Once more my stalwart hanky swept her face, and she looked at me with a small twisted smile on her full lips. "Mademoiselle, I apologize for my temper. I know this man as I knew my own father. This man WAS my father for so many years, and it was...a nightmare when his feelings changed so that we lost that closeness and he acted... different. And I must admit, he is a very interesting and romantic-minded man. I would have had no problem falling in love with him had I not already established him in my heart as my father. I could not feel...that way...about a man for whom I felt a _daughter's_ devotion.

There seemed to be little more to ask of her. She sat quietly and watched me, as if waiting for some sign I was finished. And indeed, I was. I felt I had an accurate picture of the situation, and maybe a good idea of the feelings that were driving her to despair. All I needed was to give her reason to feel she had done all that could be done...to feel some confidence in my ability to help this man. It was totally up to me, now.

"My lady, I understand your feelings, and will do my best to help this man. I admit my preconceived ideas of what I would learn here were…totally off the mark. I will do what you ask, as best I can." That was all. What more could I say?

We parted company at the door to my room where, as a good hostess, the Vicomtess turned me back over to Mariette. We agreed to meet over breakfast and I would then be given an idea of how I was to proceed. So much that I needed to know I had not yet been told.

Mariette helped me out of my dress and underpinnings, brushed out my hair, braiding it for the night. After hanging up my clothing, she bid me good night. I finished my toilette and retired for the night.

I never felt my head hit the pillows.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

There was no pleasure in working the Hommes de Haute Sécurité on Salle Quatre of the Rois Pour la Défectuosité. Here those who were considered extremely dangerous, to themselves or others, spent their days in rooms that contained only a thin mattress and a waste bucket. It was safer that way for the guards and orderlies. Cell walls were not padded in this ward. Each cell had a wooden door hewn from 3" solid oak, with iron reinforcement, a tray slot at the bottom, and a large viewing window in the top half, barred and cross-barred. There were no handles on either side of the doors; they were held shut with two solid iron rails that slid through brackets on the door then through aligned brackets on the metal-reinforced wall beside them. Opening an inmate door in the ward requiredthree guards; one to slide the bars back and open the door, and two to stand ready to subdue the inmate should he decide to rush the door.

The watch station was located at the end of the hall that contained the only ward exit. Three shift guards spent their day there, one behind the heavy wooden desk and one seated beside the desk, and the third walking up and down the ward, checking on the inmates. The guards alternated position every hour; the guard beside the desk was 'on call' for any minor inmate actions, or runs to the orderly station; the other guard noted the events on the log. None were armed, but carried weighted clubs that could inflict devastating damage with one hard swing.

Captain Jacques Charvoit was the officer in charge of Salle Quatre, and as the day wore on, he was not happy.

Captain Charvoit wanted to go home and have some warm wine, as his head hurt. The morning had not gone well, with two of the inmates going manic and psychotic in nearly back-to-back episodes. The inmate's fit of hysterical laughter, followed by the next's blood curdling screams had incited many of the other inmates to yell and pound their doors with their fists. The noise had quickly become more than Charvoit could handle with a head already sore from the absinthe he enjoyed the night before. Now his head hurt, and he cursed the man in Cell 410.

Nearly every evening of his residence here, le Fântome had performed his magic, rendering the ward inhabitants tranquilized with his voice; every inmate lay or sat behind their doors and tray slots, listening quietly. But no, last evening there had been not a sound from 410, and he lay upon his mat with his head wrapped in his arms, unmoving. The ward had been quiet, but a sense of unease was palatable. Today by the noon meal of thin soup, bread and cheese they'd had one incident, with the _bâtard orphelin_ in 415 gleefully yelling obscenities between bouts of echoing obscene laughter. He'd finally been subdued by orderlies and taken to the quiet room for some sobering therapy. Then 403 had gone off, slamming about his cell like a frightened rat in a box, shrieking and tearing at his hair and face. It had taken four strong orderlies to pull him out and drag the convulsing, foaming madman to the quiet room. Housekeeping was called to clean up the blood, and one of the newer guards had been noisily sick.

During his rounds, the Captain looked through the barred window of 410; the man still lay on his mattress, unmoving. Charvoit had to restrain himself from beating on the door, demanding the _tête d'merde_ wake up and sing...

As if in answer to his thoughts, the man they referred to as 'le Fântome' stirred, then sat up. He stretched his thin body in several directions, then carefully wiped his face with the inside of his tunic, and pulled his fingers through his long reddish brown hair, pulling it back, away from his face. As his right side was to the door, Charvoit was given a good view of the terrible ruin that was this side of his face and head.

The Phantom had been once been obsessed with hiding the right side from view, either under his hands, or by pulling his tunic over his head. However, as the months had passed, he had become blatant about displaying it, especially to new orderlies, with predictable results. It was unsettling enough to Charvoit, and he'd been looking at it for over a year. Given le Fântome's well-known history, added to his terrible face, the man had a mystique that influenced his treatment by orderlies as well as Charvoit's men. The man was outrageous at times, embarrassing and confusing the orderlies who must provide his care. He was also intimidating due to his height. Several orderlies had quit or transferred to other wards, rather than deal with him.

During the required weekly bathing, shaving and medical care, he was polite and even appreciative, especially if his sense of propriety was given some respect. He had won himself extras, such as an additional bathing and shaving during the week, a wet cloth with which to clean himself daily, and clean tunic and pants weekly. The man was fastidiously clean; something that was appreciated in a place where the waste buckets were frequent accomplices to inmate expression of angst.

There was also the effect he'd had on the entire ward; an effect that Charvoit and fellow Salle Quatre officers would sorely miss the day le Fântome had his dance with Mademoiselle Guillotine. Nearly every evening for 13 months the fourth ward had enjoyed his clear, warm baritone in mesmerizing song, the Phantom's daily love offering to a woman named Christine. It had not taken long for the ward staff and inmates to grow accustomed to the quietude and calm the expression of the man's sweet passion and devotion evoked.

Charvoit sighed and walked back to the guard station. The inmates along the hall were restless, thumps and moans were heard; and one inmate sat slamming his head continuously against the oak door. Charvoit thought of going over and giving the door a good kick; perhaps it would stop the banging. Probably it would serve no purpose other than relieving Charvoit himself of his feeling of unease.

Thinking of the Phantom's long, sparse hair on the right side of his skull, the Captain was reminded that the inmates would all need a good delousing and some would receive haircuts soon. Le Fântome refused to have his hair cut, and it was decided not to push it; the man was ugly enough. The Captain hated those details; more guards and inmates got hurt while treating and cleansing the inmates than at any other time.

Perhaps he would be withholding the extras for the man in 410 in retaliation for the two days' silence. The extra bath and shave was a powerful point of barter with 410, who had demanded more, but Charvoit was careful not to overdo it.

It wouldn't do for their resident attraction to lose his monster appeal...

* * *

The next morning arrived six hours too soon for my exhausted and alcohol dehydrated body. Mariette knocked on the door and immediately came in with a mug of hot chocolate, throwing open the drapes over the French doors and side windows. Although I was not on the eastern side at this time of day, it was obvious the sun was well up, and I needed to get moving. There was much to be done today.

Thirty minutes later I was downstairs, hair brushed and bundled artfully upon my head, dressed in a chintz print gown with little ornamentation. I hated fussy, and my clothing bore little of it. However, Mariette had pressed and twitched at the dress until she was happy with the way it rode my bony frame.

The breakfast 'salon was, predictably, a good-sized 'cozy', with table, breakfront, and large, comfortable chairs barely denting the available square metres of floor space. The Vicomte was seated, as well as Abrigaun. For once, I did not blush, but curtsied graciously and allowed the footman to seat me.

A plate was set before me on the lace-covered table. I recognized toast. Everything else was up for speculation, and I decided it was best just to eat and be thankful I did not know. Any country that considered horses meat animals was of suspicious gustatory creditability to my mind, anyway. I chewed my toast and nibbled carefully at everything else until I could determine its approximate species.

I had no idea I was entertaining the gentlemen while I ate my breakfast. Noticing the silence I looked up to find two amused males trading glances and watching my careful exploration of French cuisine. I scowled and asked de'Chagny, "Am I correct in assuming that we will be making arrangements for moving the gentleman in question today?"

De'Chagny's grin disappeared. Good.

"The arrangements are made, Mademoiselle, but not necessarily for today. There are certain...ah...conditions that must be met first. Once we are ready to leave, we will be under personal escort until such time as we leave French soil. At that time the fan...er...Monsieur Bouchard will become my sole responsibility. So there will be two men who will travel to Tuscany with you, and remain there for the entire time to serve as guards and keep Bouchard in your control."

"So, even though Monsieur Bouchard will be a 'free' man, he will be under house arrest? How long will this last?"

De'Chagny looked somewhat startled at this question. I was under the impression that his plans became more vague as they moved into the 'future'.

"There will be guards with you at all times in Tuscany as long as you and Bouchard are at the de'Chagny estate there. How long?" He gave a Gallic shrug. "Until such time as he can be trusted to behave in a civilized manner, as well as to leave my family well enough alone." He gave me a measuring look. "I guess we will judge when he is...cured...by what you tell us."

"Oh." Indeed, I feel absolutely no pressure now, Monsieur! "So I will decide when Monsieur Bouchard is...quote, cured, unquote...of his obsession with the Vicomtess?"

De'Chagny was becoming irritated, and waved his food-unoccupied hand airily, saying "Surely we can go over the details later? Anyway, I have arrangements for you to meet our friend 'in situ' so that we are in a... hmmm... safe place in which to do so. I would want you to see him and have some idea of what he is like. Perhaps speak with him a bit. I believe this is important, yes?"

I merely nodded. Safe place for whom?

"Fine, then. It would probably be best if we visit during the morning. The ward where he is kept tends to be quieter then, as the inmates sleep a great deal of the morning."

"I see." Wondering why such a detail was important, I thought I would clear up at least one question. "I am to understand this...institution...is a state-run facility for the insane. When you say 'ward' do you mean the inmates are all kept together in one room?"

"No, no, Mademoiselle. Bouchard is kept alone in a high security cell, as are all the inmates on this ward. These are violent men who are considered past reason."

"Oh." I suddenly began to feel a bit...anxious. However, I was ready to move things along, and so I took the initiative.

"Monsieur, give me twenty minutes and I will be ready." He blinked in surprise, nodded and applied himself to his breakfast tea and the French newspaper. Abriguan stood as I left the table, his smile warm. I sailed past him with a polite nod, and twitched my skirts firmly away from his pants leg.

* * *

Naturally, the trip from Meudon, at the southwestern edge of Paris to Charenton-Saint-Maurice located directly east at the northeastern edge of Paris took some time. I had taken fifteen minutes to change into a walking dress, dig out my most business-like boots, and allow Marietta to pack my hair into something that could handle whatever the day threw at me. Gloves, a shawl about my shoulders to cover my head if needed, my bag and I was ready. I think de'Chagny was caught a bit off guard when I was at the door, ready to go in exactly twenty minutes.

A carriage was brought around, and I found myself traveling again with these two aggravating men. De'Chagny and Abriguan began arguing before we had passed the estate gates.

They debated the superiority of the springs on the carriage we occupied versus another made by an English carriage maker. They argued over the composition of the road, and condition of the present financial markets. They squabbled over politics and then relative virtues of one gaming hell over another. I simply stared out the side windows at the vista passing by.

Passing the outer ring to the north, we rolled into parklands, and the Seine moved to intercept us. The road became steadily higher and it was some time before I realized that we were on a bridge over the Seine, so gradual was the rise, and so artful the landscaping. In the far distance, a large fortress loomed, and de'Chagny advised me it was our destination, the Rois Pour la Défectuosité.

He then went on to give me the history of the Rois. It was once the summer palace for King XVI, built on his family's land, and thereafter bequeathed to a nephew at the time of Louis's passing. It is an absolute behemoth of a building; I thought if size was any measure, there must be a great number of insane persons in France. I later learned that a good percentage of the building beyond the first floor was not utilized due to the need for update and repair. Indeed, the poor nephew's heirs, specifically the relation who had donated its use as a place to house the mentally ill, did so when upkeep nearly beggared him.

_In my mind's eye, I saw the poor man, tossing his few remaining valuables into a small cart, declaring,_ "You would have to be crazy to live here!"

Upon entering the building we were directed by a guard to the office of the Directeur Etienne' Morneau, who greeted de'Chagny with slavering respect. He was very abrupt with Abriguan, however, and I figured prior legal shenanigans by the solicitor had served to irritate the gentleman. Morneau picked up a suspiciously wicked looking cane and escorted us to the fourth ward.

All patient wards were located on the first floor of the building, and laid out so the men and women were kept a distance from each other. The women's wards were on the east side of the building, the men's wards on the west, separated by a wide hall that bisected the building. Halfway down the hall the wards gave way to a stretch of offices, kitchens, and at least three infirmaries of various types on both sides.

Suddenly a solid plated metal barricade stretched across the hall, and a sizeable door, made of metal bars and plate steel offered the only access. We passed through this only to be met with another such wall to the right; there was a window to the side of this entrance where a man in uniform could be seen behind a metal grill. A prosaically painted sign hanging over the window advised that we had arrived at the "Hommes Dangereux Aliénés - Salle Quatre."

I found it notable there was no 'dangerous women insane' ward to the left. I would have pointed it out to my two companions, but both gentlemen were now looking a bit tense.

I will admit to some unease myself. The places I had worked had certainly had patients who were kept under constant guard by orderlies or actual law enforcement. Nonetheless, never had I worked anywhere that the entry door into the ward was as secure as a bank vault!

Morneau rapped his cane on the ugly metal door, and it opened immediately. A somewhat short gentleman wearing the uniform of the French National Police stood waiting at attention on the other side. Morneau ushered us through, with a reluctant Vicomte leading the group. Upon my walking through the second door, the little officer gave me a look of unqualified horror, and a rapid-fire conference in French ensued between the Vicomte, the officer, and Morneau. De'Chagny referred to the military person as 'Captain' several times.

I also caught a phrase of French from the Captain, that although spoken in the incomprehensible way French is obviously to be spoken, I understood; '_Je me lave les mains', "I wash my hands!_"

* * *

For several nights, my sleep has been fraught with vivid dreams of searching through the burnt carcass of the Opera Populaire'. I am calling, going through empty rooms, climbing the stairs and ladders that connect the floors, moving landscapes and digging through heaps of costumes and set pieces, looking for what or who, I cannot say. There are no people, just the hundreds of closed doors that march down branching hallways, full of furniture and papers and stage props and things that I neither understand nor can clearly visualize. In these dreams I become more frantic in my attempts to understand what I am doing and whom I seek. I become frightened of the objects I cannot understand. I cry and scream and when I at last wake, I am soaked in a panicked sweat. I am no stranger to nightmares, but these feel beyond anything I had ever experienced.

Last night it had taken me hours find sleep, so fearful was I of actually finding it.

It was during my tossing and fretting I realized Christine had gone, had left me for the final time. I was relieved to see her go. Despite my pleas for forgiveness, and assurances of the parental and platonic nature of my regard, my guilt and groveling bled the very sweetness from our hours together. After spending no small part of the months with me, locked inside this concrete hole, Christine had become faded and ragged, like a favorite letter, or the corners of a much-thumbed book. Last night, finally, she had just...disintegrated. I can no longer realize the fantasy or even recall her face; I, who had drawn her in every expression from the time she was eight years old.

And now…this…a most disturbing occurrence… Just now there was an instant when my vision blurred, and I felt a vast _shift_, as if my body had been shoved forward; I had actually thrown out my hands, as if to catch myself. The sensation felt as real as my own hand upon this cursed face, yet I realized instantly my feet had never moved…I was still upright, my body's position unchanged.

This happened directly after the evening meal…do not bother asking me what it was I ate. I thought to sit down to the spinet and perform several ballads composed hours earlier, hoping to lure Christine back for another lesson…a few more duets, perhaps.

There will be no further ballads…no duets, nothing. I am relieved she is not here to share my final humiliation.

I realize now the import of the 'shift'; a yawning gap has formed between what I had been…and what I have become, while living in an 8' by 10' cell, sleeping on a lumpy, malodorous pallet, relieving myself in a bucket. _Singing with a fantasy_.

I have become...a man_. _

I am now conscious of what I have refused to accept for so long. That…despite my genius, in direct contradiction of the persona I once worked so hard to acquire, I face an ignoble death and will become..._nothing_.

I spent my life being a living ghost, a frightening shadow, the walking dead amongst the vibrant living! I can assure myself that the memory of the Opera Ghost will not die...

..._but Erik will most certainly do so._

The Opera Ghost needs no one and there is nothing he could not provide himself.

I, however, feel keenly I have been cast adrift and abandoned by everyone. This is the child, thrown away by his mother, frightened in the dark.

For the first time in many months I cry, like the boy I once was, in terror and grief, shoving my tunic into my face to muffle the hideous sounds attendant to my weeping.

Sleep comes after hours of tossing and tears…


	9. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

De'Chagny was feeling somewhat torn; it was his inclination to protect the innocent, meaning women and children, from life's horrors and ugliness. This woman, however, was going to walk right into what he had already experienced once as a very horrifying, ugly place. She was without fear. De'Chagny felt as if he had made a massive error in judgment in bringing her here, and that his knees would begin knocking together any minute.

Abriguan had elected to remain by the guard station, talking earnestly with one of the Captain's men. How damned convenient was that?

Directeur Morneau walked beside Captain Charvoit, leading the way down the ward hall. Captain Charvoit seemed to have actually gotten shorter and sucked himself in a smaller available target for whatever he felt impending. This did not reassure the Vicomte. Although, he may well have just stayed behind with Abriguan for all the 'protection' the Mademoiselle required from him. She looked even less concerned than the Directeur.

They came abreast of the first barred door, and the inhabitant hit the inside with a smack, his face shoved against the bars and his mouth already spewing words that made de'Chagny's back muscles freeze. Mademoiselle Butler did not bat an eye, nor did she quit looking about as if at a county fair.

The first catcalls alerted the ward, and it was if somebody had switched on a dozen bullhorns. Screaming and laughing, words of the kind that de'Chagny never wanted to hear again, much less when walking next to a woman. The fact that the woman was so unaffected bothered him, just the slightest, but he supposed that in her line of work she had to develop a very thick skin to finer sensibilities.

Mademoiselle Butler marched behind the Directeur and looked in each door transom they passed. She smiled at one inmate, and the man actually quieted. She smiled at another a few doors down, and the man blew her kisses, and then disappeared below the transom. That was rather remarkable, but it did not happen every time. De'Chagny did admit that she had a very generous, warm smile, and she applied it equally to all the inmates who came to their doors, yelling or not. She kept it on her face, and, to de'Chagny's amazement…the noise in the ward became sporadic.

Captain Charvoit stopped before the very last door along the hallway, and rapped sharply upon it to get the inmate's attention. This inmate had chosen to stay on his sorry pallet and ignore the chaos that had filled the ward. This did not surprise the Vicomte at all, knowing exactly who it was.

Upon looking through the wide barred window, de'Chagny could see that the Ghost sat with his knees drawn up, and his head wrapped in his arms. His left side was to the door, for which the Vicomte was thankful. Then Mademoiselle Butler moved to see through the grill, as the Captain called to the man several times, requesting he come to the door. The Captain's voice was respectful and his requests to the inmate to come speak to a guest were polite. He was ignored, until he called for the guards to open the door.

The Vicomte watched the Ghost finally raise his head and laugh in rising volume, tipping his head against the hard wall behind him. The sound of that maniacal laughter sent chills up and down de'Chagny's spine; he'd heard that laugh enough times before. Suddenly he felt his knees begin to tremble.

* * *

I am pulled, startled, from my rough sleep by the sound of the other inmates yelling… There is a female on the floor. Groaning, I can only roll myself into a ball and cover my head. I cannot do this today…I cannot forever be Charvoit's trained monster and make the man happy. "Go to hell, Charvoit!" I mumble.

Inevitably, there is the knock on the cell door, and there is Charvoit _politely requesting _I stand and approach the door. That is new; never before has Charvoit _asked_ me to do anything but be my quite natural, hideously demonic self.

I roll my back to the wall, yet keep my head buried in my hands, forehead resting uncomfortably upon my bony knees…and ignore Charvoit. Can he not see I am unwell? Dying of my _humanity_…

The stinking little pissant calls, politely, to me again, and I cannot stop from grinding my teeth in helpless fury. The man will not go away! It is when the Captain tells the guards to open the door and instructs his 'guests' to stand back, I realize I am losing control of both myself and the situation. I will need to do something to give Charvoit a reason to back down.

I put my head back against the wall, still keeping my left side to the door and give into my hysterical side, _laughing_, sending the sound bouncing off the walls and ceiling of the little room. Just a modest show for the Captain's guests, and perhaps Charvoit would just go away.

Quite suddenly, in the interval between my outburst and the Captain's next gambit, a clear woman's voice requests the Captain step back, that she would much prefer 'to speak to the man before anyone just 'invades' his cell.' I cannot help but be taken by that novel idea. Why, it is as if this smelly, claustrophobic hole in Hell's backside is my private property! I feel a smile…no…a _grin _crack my ugly face, and begin to turn my head to see what silly twit is here to view the monster.

And a voice I have not heard in over a year says, "No, please, Mademoiselle, don't do that!" Before I can make the conscious decision to do so, I am on my feet, throwing myself at the door…

* * *

Several thoughts flashed through my mind as I stared at the hissing, sneering man who had just slapped himself against the bars in the door.

My first being: 'I will need to revise my thoughts on the uncle's age.'

This was no doddering geezer, grey-haired and shuffling. He had come off the floor in one lithe motion...had hit the door nearly instantaneously, so quick did he move.

Assessing his health, I thought Bouchard looked desperately thin, and in need of care. His hair was uneven and knotted and went far past his shoulders. Nonetheless, he had beautiful teeth, white and healthy.

And his eyes, Sweet Jesu', his eyes were clear crystalline green, as beautiful and pure in color as the peridott stones in my earbobs. One could easily fall into them, and indeed, I found myself doing just that. I stepped back and collected my thoughts, realizing that we had stood for at least half a minute staring into each other's eyes. I was preparing to speak, when hands abruptly grabbed my upper arms from behind and de'Chagny's voice squeaked in my ear, "Mademoiselle, I feel we should try visiting another day."

Bouchard's eyes snapped from mine in an instant and focused behind me, on de'Chagny. I felt the boy's response in the sudden spasm in his grip. Bouchard's sneering wolf grin pulled his face into the devil's own image, and I felt a momentary thrill of fear. Then he spoke, sarcasm slathered upon every word, in a voice that was dark, warm silk to his ice-cold eyes. "So, Vicomte, you have come to visit me again. Please, DO open the door and come in. I am sure we can find something to chat about." The threat was unmistakable; the hatred that filled Bouchard's face made all the more black by the eroded condition of the right side. De'Chagny drew back on my arms, but I leaned against his timorous pull, making it clear I was not moving. "Mademoiselle! We must go!" De'Chagny fussed at me, his voice strained.

At my determined gesture, Bouchard's eyes returned to mine. I looked over his face, at the ruined side as well as the fair, openly. Leaning forward until the double bars were all that was between us, I spoke with some heat, "Monsieur, your anger is misplaced."

He glared at me, and rasped "Madame, you know nothing of my anger! I suggest you allow the boy pull you back before I bite!" Another wolfish show of teeth followed this bizarre statement, but there was no hint of good humor in his eyes. He again shifted his gaze to the man behind me, and his lips curled back.

De'Chagny yanked at me, whispering urgently, but I had had enough. I yanked my arms away, cursing him in Gaelic; he stepped back as if I had turned into a snarling cur. I twisted back to the door, and grasping the bars with my hands, hissed back, "You do yourself a great disservice, Monsieur! I beg you, moderate your behavior, or you will never see the outside of this place!"

At this Bouchard chuckled, and his lips folded into a lovely, honest smile.

"Mademoiselle, I do not waste time on such pointless fantasy. This is my life, for what is left. Please do not tell me how best to serve myself, or how I am to behave." He stepped back, raising his arms as if to invite my assessment. "I am now but meat for La' Guillotine's loving blade. I taste the same, whatever my behavior!"

He turned smoothly and walked away from the door several steps, and despite his humble attire and wretched appearance, I could see the man he must be. Turning back to face the door, Bouchard dropped his arms and his face became impassive and his body still, as if awaiting something more from me. I saw again the darkness and loss in his eyes, which caught at me as if it were a physical grasp.

"I am but a ghost, Mademoiselle, and this has always been my fate. To be betrayed by those I love, and forgotten by those who loved me." He narrowed his eyes and his lips twitched upward to a most incongruous leer. "It has been a pleasure to look again upon a woman, Mademoiselle. I am delighted to have provided you with diversion as well."

I heard the little Captain gibbering away about the evil of women in the ward. De'Chagny and Directeur Morneau were arguing in growing heat. I leaned into the bars, and gave him the only comfort I could think to say. "_A Mhuirnín_, you are not forgotten! We will meet again!" I turned from the door, and walked briskly back to the entrance. There was not one sound in the ward but my heels on the concrete floor.

* * *

The trip back to the de'Chagny estate was a blur. I know both of my companions talked incessantly at me, trying to convince a stubborn, hell-bound female to abandon a doomed assignment. A very handsome settlement was offered, should I just forget the entire thing and go quietly back to England.

As though to nail home the hopelessness and unsuitability of the assignment to one of my gender, Abrigaun delivered the ultimate fine print to my contract. I will state the facts, and you may imagine the effect:

That one of the reasons I had particularly been chosen was because of my skill with firearms and hopefully a corresponding bloodthirsty lack of ladylike resistance to use them against my patient. I was to kill Bouchard if he tried to escape. Nothing less.

That should he try to use me as a shield or hostage and I could not extricate myself, I should not expect any rescue or negotiations on my behalf. Abrigaun was openly tearing up at this.

Abrigaun reminded me that my first obligation was to the de'Chagny's and that Bouchard should be considered a threat to the Vicomtess especially. For that reason, de'Chagny was not going to expect anything less than that I kept the man under constant supervision, or lock and key.

And le' Vicomte Raoul de'Chagny finally spoke. "Mademoiselle, I do not understand what happened in there between you and Bouchard, but I felt you had an immediate...connection with him. That frightens me! This is a man who mesmerizes women...to control them. I..."

Well, that was enough; I broke in irritably. "Vicomte de'Chagny! My Lord, you insult me with this…twaddle? The 'immediate connection' was my frank appraisal of his physical condition. My first concern was his ability to act calmly at a request. My express purpose of talking to him was that he understands you were not a threat, and he was being removed to another situation. Should I not want him to have some peace of mind?"

De'Chagny stared back, not backing down an inch. Abrigaun's mouth moved, but I quit listening. Both became but an annoying whine in the background of my thoughts.

I reflected upon the devilish conditions I had just been handed. Of course, I would have some time to get myself away, and being the insufferable egotist I am, I felt that would be little trouble. The idea of becoming Bouchard's keeper, not unlike the man who hand-feeds the tiger, did not appeal to me either. But there you are. This was the job I had signed for, and I could either accept their generous settlement, and allow Bouchard go to his death, or I could go forward with the deal, ugly details and all.

I would like to say that common sense prevailed and I decided to do the prudent thing. However, I had, as we say in the foxhunting game, "the bit in my teeth," a most hazardous occurrence with one's horse, and absolute hell to pay with a Butler. The gentleman in Cell 410 and I _would_ be going to the Tuscan Coast of Italy as soon as I could relight the fire beneath my employer's good intentions. My reasons, of course, went far deeper than the conscience of one confused vicomtess.

I listened with disgust to them fuss and wheedle, trying to sway my resolve. I listened to de'Chagny's dire predictions of my death, "or worse" and the folly of continuing with the assignment. I found it amazing he could feel such menace in one 'elderly gentleman' locked behind several inches of solid oak.

Having had enough of the badgering, I hissed at both de'Chagny and Abrigaun, loudly denounced them as "chicken-hearted cads", with the "intestinal fortitude of sheep", and demanded they give me the opportunity to do what the Vicomtess asked of me.

That hushed the Vicomte; his jaws closed with a discernable snap.

Abriguan decided he would sulk and flash hurt looks at me. I would not relent.

Upon reaching my employer's home, we found the noon meal delayed for our arrival, but I felt unwilling to sit at table with the de'Chagny's. In fact, I had developed a raging headache and the urge to bawl like a baby. I retired to my room immediately, catching Mariette vigorously making the bed. She helped me undress whilst making small noises of comfort, and slipped a long sleep gown over my head. She rubbed chamomile water upon my wrists and placed a cool cloth upon my pounding head.

After a good cry, I slept and dreamed of my mother.

* * *

I spent the first twelve years of my life in the rural hinterlands of Cork County, Ireland. My father, Connor Éamon Butler, my mother, Bridget Maire Butler (nee Muldoon) and all of their children were horsemen; riding, training, raising, and breeding horses were the whole of our lives and the spindle upon which our family life revolved. In that business, it was not just my father but all of us, who worked at the barns with the horses. We filled water buckets, cleaned stalls, walked horses, cared for gear. My father was the primary supervisor over the breeding and birthing barns as well as owner of the Ballinhassig Stud, known throughout Europe for its superior bloodstock. Every successful breeding and young horse sold put money in the Butler pocket. As I said, the business was our lives.

I sat at the feet of my mam's saddle gelding and pulled myself up with his legs when learning to stand at age thirteen months. My mother put me up on a likely pony when I was four years of age after I had screamed and fussed for weeks to go along on the hunts. I foxhunted with her every fall and winter for seven years thereafter, cubbing with her in the spring and summer. I suffered my first broken bone when I was eight years after my horse decided I needed to clear the ditch 'afore him. Oh, I was fine when I landed. Twas' the beast ridden by another who broke my arm by stepping on it.

My mother tied my arm to my neck and chest with our cravats, and put me back up on my gelding, saying "There's nowt' for it but to ride on with us, little Ails'. Get a good grip and follow me." We jumped every wall, every coop, every ditch and I was still wanting to go on, but the fox went to ground.

That is how my mother took life; no matter what had happened, or how great the pain, you continued until you had reached a sensible place to stop.

"You doon't quit swimmin' in the middle of a river." That is how we all lived, pushing ahead for that day when it was possible to sit down and lick your wounds without losing your momentum.

* * *

Later that afternoon refreshed from my nap, I appeared downstairs, ready to corner de'Chagny and Abrigaun and demand answers to my rapidly multiplying questions, flogged from their bleeding bodies, if necessary. Upon reaching the Great Hall, the butler met me and requested I follow him. As we walked countless metres' of de'Chagny real estate, I wondered how long he had spent lurking in the Great Hall awaiting my appearance, poor man.

Eventually we walked through French doors to a stone courtyard that overlooked vast terraced gardens below. In the distance, the Seine flowed past tree-covered banks, dotted with the occasional waterman's craft.

The de'Chagnys sat together, holding hands and enjoying what was left of the day. I hated to intrude, but upon my announced entry, the Vicomtess sprung from her chair and nearly ran to meet me. I let her pull me out to the area where they sat, but insisted she sit in the chair. I sat on the wide balustrade, looking out over the Moldun valley, and we all seemed to enjoy a few moments without talk of that which surely crowded our thoughts. The view was magical at every quarter of the compass.

Combined with the lifestyle and de'Chagny money, it was no wonder the little orphan girl chose the Vicomte instead of a lonely older man...

Eventually the Vicomte rose from his seat and asked that I stay with his wife. He did not elaborate, but I understood she wished to talk to me. We continued to sit, looking out over the terraced lands below for some time. The Vicomtess broke the silence first. "Raoul told me about your discussion concerning a nurse-companion for me."

I turned my head and gave her my attention.

She continued. "You are exactly right. I cannot...speak about any of this to his sisters. And his mother..." Christine made a sheepish face, "I guess I will never feel comfortable with the fact that she was adamantly against our marriage. Now she proclaims that my silly childish despondency over 'that man' is nothing but a way to gain attention and pity, and that I am practically cuckolding Raoul. She has publicly intimated more than once that my child...is not...could not be...

I had heard enough, and lay my hand on hers. "Please, my lady, do not even speak of it."

She and I again retreated to silence. I felt a rush of righteous anger against the elder de'Chagny for her obvious lack of heart, and churlish denial of this real happiness for her son. Women could be appallingly evil to each other at times.

Below us, in the garden, there were two women gathering large bouquets of the tall _fleur de leurs_. They are called 'Irises' in England and Ireland, and I had no idea they were the flower that played such a large role in iconic French heraldry. Perhaps, if I were to be very clever, I could steal one of the flowers from the house vases later and spirit it off to my room, to sniff and admire at my leisure. I dearly loved irises...

The Vicomtess spoke again softly, "I know who I want to stay with me already. I have wanted to ask her here to stay with me for months. I just do not know how Raoul will feel about it."

I gave her an inquiring look. "And who is this?"

"It is my foster-sister, Meg Giry. She is presently at the Opera Comidie, but I know she would come here to be with me. Especially if Raoul were to provide her with a salary..."

"My lady, if you feel this young lady would make you feel much happier, and allow you the opportunity to vent some of your fears and stressful feelings, I would encourage you to talk to your husband. He is a very reasonable man, and would probably say yes to whatever you ask."

The Vicomtess nodded her head and made a move as if to rise. I put my hand out and stayed her gently. "But realize that any burden you lift from your shoulders will be placed upon Meg Giry's. I know you are carrying a hob full of troubles these days, dear lady. It would be worrisome that she, being your sister, could find herself feeling overwhelmed. Being a confidant can be extremely hard on one's sensibilities, and this mademoiselle could not be much older than you, am I right?"

For a moment I saw the child in the woman, ready to revolt and do exactly as she wanted, whatever reason and counsel would suggest. Sorrowfully, I thought to myself, 'I am a troublesome old woman, just like her mother in-law'.

But her face became apologetic, and she gave me one of her sweet, sideways smiles. "I would not have considered that, dear Mademoiselle. No, I could not do that to Meg. Better she visit as my sister, and I carry my troubles myself."

I was impressed, and my heart ached just a bit for this delicate woman. As much as I did not wish to emotionally attach to any of these people, the little Vicomtess was surely making mince pie of my resolve.

"I have a possible solution, if you will allow me write notes to the three Nursing Societies that are located here in Paris, as I am well acquainted with all three, and personally know officers in two. I will request a list of suitable candidates for you and the Vicomte to interview."

The Vicomtess' face fell into fearful worry, and she clasped my hand in her's. "Oh, but I would like you to do this...surely you would have a much better idea of exactly what is needed in a nurse-companion! In fact, I would insist! I do not know what to request, and do not wish to know what Raoul would consider important." She laughed at this, but her hysteria and resentment was evident.

"And I, my dear, hope to be on the way to Tuscany with our friend safely out of that...place, as soon as possible." Naturally, I had no idea of the arrangements that would make this happen.

The Vicomtess nodded her head, "No doubt you are ready to get settled again. You don't seem the type to enjoy flitting all over the place at all..."

"I have learned to be flexible, my lady. Moving about is not a problem, but I cannot abide living out of a travel trunk forever. Besides, I need to have a cat or two, a good piano, and a nice spirited mare to ride to keep me sane!"

The Vicomtess' face cleared, and she smiled shyly, "Mademoiselle Butler, you are a woman of surprises! I had you figured for a sedate walk and a spaniel." We both laughed.

"I think the travel I most wish for at this time is that which will put us on the road to Tuscany. I will pen three notes to be delivered to addresses in the city, one for each Nurse's Society. If they can be delivered tomorrow, early, we can hope that we will have an answer quickly. Does this sound acceptable?"

Madame de'Chagny smiled. "I think we could even have them delivered this very evening, if you believe it appropriate. I can take you to Raoul's office wherein you will find pen and paper." Obviously a woman of action, our Christine! We moved into the house.

De'Chagny couriers delivered my letters that evening. The addresses were those I kept in my journal, and one of the society presidents was a particular friend, having worked with me at Nettles Home. I felt I could do no better than to inquire there first.

Dinner was served in the small 'salon, as there was just the three of us. Abrigaun had finally gone, I would hope to spend time with his neglected wife and family. The food was exceptional, and having missed lunch, I made a good meal. The Vicomtess, however, looked ready to fall into her soup, and soon after the dessert was brought to table, she excused herself.

The Vicomte was on her heels, hesitating just long enough to assure me that I certainly need not hurry from table. I did, however, feeling the need to return to my book, Emily Brontë's "Wuthering Heights".

I adjourned to my room and after I'd been divested of the dress and underpinnings, and Marietta was assured that I was happily ensconced in my bed with my book, she left me to read myself to sleep.

I felt far too restless to read, however.

Slipping on my heaviest robe, I stepped out the veranda doors to the smooth slate that floored the terrace. No doubt, the vista that lay before me off the edge of the terrace would be spectacular when the moon was full. There was no moon tonight. The stars cast a faint silver edge to the trees along the Seine, and iced the edges of the great 'maison behind me. Nevertheless, the night reigned supreme, and it fit my mood and my thoughts perfectly.

I shuffled to the balustrade, unsure of when or where my toes would find it, and upon bumping against it, explored it with my hands. Here, too, it was amply broad enough for my rear. I sat upon it, tempting fate; how humiliating would it be to go tumbling off to the far garden below in the middle of the night. However, the stone stored the days' heat and was pleasurable against my backside. I had spent far too many days bumping about in carriages in the past week, and I was feeling the need for a long walk, or a good ride.

Or this: the enfolding embrace of the night. That one place where I was no longer a visible anomaly in a world of normal; I belonged here, with the shadows and starlight. My eyes grew used to the dark, and my skin cooled, releasing the heat of the day so that the ambient temperature matched mine. With renewed awareness I watched the deer visit the field past the garden wall, and heard the twittering of the birds disturbed in their sleep in the huge beech and oak trees that followed the river. A martin sniffed and waddled along the top of the wall below, no doubt on the trail of the burrow of rabbits that raided the cook's garden. His back was a silver arch as the tips of his glossy fur caught the starlight.

My thoughts turned to the day's events, and specifically to the man I would be caring for soon, Bouchard. And again I felt the instant flash of fear and recognition that had struck me with near physical force upon looking into his face. There had been the darkness and otherness, the feeling of being apart, alone, different; the fear of discovery, and of being hidden. It was all there, as clear as chalk on the wall, the self that I had lived with for 36 long, lonely years.

Never before had I felt such a sense of precognition of another person, an instant knowing of them, bone and flesh, heart and soul. Was I now being fanciful and irrational in seeing in him what I had felt in myself, for so very long?

No. The dark child had been there, staring out of his eyes. The soulless watcher, the aberrant alter that held such sway over all that we were.

I had now reached the point where I need ask myself, did I honestly thinkI would do any better by him than simply leaving him to drown in his own darkness? The hate, the rage that radiated from the man told me the battle was near lost, yet the sense of hopelessness, the pain, spoke of a soul under siege, untouched but weakening. Jerrod Bouchard still suffered; he had not yet accepted the dark destiny that awaited us both.

I felt the danger in getting too close, yet how could I turn away? He and I had no one else to save us, no one else who would understand. I knew either we both won… Or we both lost. The very second of looking into his enraged and wounded visage had tied us, one to the other, irrevocably. I could not walk away, as that would surely send me over the edge; he could well pull me under if he were to chose to give up.

Alone, this man faced a certain end, and conclusion to his travail on earth. The answer to his wish for release from this living purgatory would soon be delivered, and his mind would be free. What fear could one such as he...or I... have for the guillotine's sharp blade, when it was life's endless pricks and slashes of torment we would escape? Why did I think it better to drag him back to life, when he could have his fondest wish, were he to stay where he was?

What right did I have to take that from him? For the price of his soul. At the cost of ever knowing what life could be, lived in the sun, able to love and grow old under God's gentle hand.

Able finally to feel God. To feel love, and know love.

The die was cast: I had sealed my fate, and his on the signing of the contracts, and the doors that once stood open in every direction about me were now closed and barred. I had walked though the one that allowed no turning back, and in doing so, sentenced Jerrod James Bouchard to a fate worse than death.

_And the dark child keened in grief and watched in dry-eyed horror. The evil voices spat curses of death and blasphemy.  
_  
I wondered if I would live long enough to rue my decision.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

My Grandmother Muldoon lived with my parents while my mother carried me. Granny was old and crippled and there was nowt' else for her to go; Gramps Muldoon had quit the earth many years before. One wonders if not to escape Granny.

My birth was not an easy one for my mother; she was worn and tired from carrying the large child I was, and still had several more running underfoot, needing care. She had experienced pains and problems that had never bothered her once with the preceding five pregnancies.

Then I was born with the cord wrapped twice firmly about my neck, as blue in the face as granny's favorite irises. As my mother tells the story, my father cut the cord, unwrapped it from about my neck, and grabbing me by my wrists and ankles, swung me hard around him, like one does a lamb who isn't breathing. Da said it was something he learned from the Gypsies who frequently workedthe lambing season up in Northern Ireland.

I gasped for breath after a turn or two, and turned pink, as a baby should be. However, I would not allow my mother to cuddle or touch me, except to nurse. Even then, I was all business, tucking my hands beneath my sides and yelling bloody murder whilst I was burped. I yelled nightly for months, only to be soothed when my Da would walk with me, all hours of the night, through the dark barns. There I was gently sniffed over by the gravid mares, fat with spring foals. Then to the stallion shed, where the four sires commiserated with Da about the folly of the male's lot in life. I gather I would then allow my father several hours of uninterrupted sleep in an accommodating chair whilst holding me, before needing nursed, changed and walked through the barns yet again.

Mam called me her revenge upon my Da for saddling her with yet another bairn when she was worn with children and work already.

But Granny Muldoon called me a _'jeh raie'_...'dark child', a soulless demon, a false person. The entire episode gave Granny near fits whenever she would speak of it. "You were born dead, and dead you should 'ave been," she would hiss at me. As I grew older and began my campaign against the Catholic hypocrite who served as priest in our parish, my granny would whisper to me "Dark Child, get thee' hence!"

My earliest memory is after my fourth birthday, which is in the fall, and therefore my mother made my favorite birthday treat, squash pie. It was the squash pie that finally roused the demon inside me. I kipped a piece after bed one night, only to be cornered by Granny Muldoon. She cursed me thoroughly, hissing and the saliva dripping from the vast open spaces between her two bottom teeth.

I cowered against the wall from the painful grasp of her fingers yanking at my hair and digging into my shoulder. "'Jeh _Raie'_! Ye smell sick wi' death...yer soul stinks o' rot. Ye are t'evil in this hoose! Ye 'ave brought death to this family! I would cast ye 'oot, drive ye from this hoose but they canna' see ye! But I do, damn ye, and I curse ye, soulless one! May yer eyes ne'er close, and yer 'eart be barren! Pah!"

She threw me to the floor, and spat upon me...

And in that moment she released the demon in my soul, and thus began the ravening of the tender child I might have been.

Already a shy child, I became fearful of the monster that was obviously inside me, lurking, like a tapeworm in the stomach or a deadly passable miasma. Always I feared it would show itself, that others would see that evil as Granny did, that dark bairn, the stain of stinking abomination, and I would suffer their horror or fear, ridicule and rejection.

That my own granny was so blatant in her fear and abhorrence of me, made me doubly vigilant of any sign of the same thoughts from my parents. Any slight, no matter how small, loomed enormous in my mind. I saw my mother's overwhelming preference for the boys; my father's increased avoidance, begging lack of time. There was the fact that even when among my siblings...I was one apart. I did not like dolls, or physical play of any sort unless it involved the horses. I preferred solitary slinking about like a cat in the dark. My older sister was in school by the time I was old enough to do much more than sit in the dirt within sight while my parents worked the horses. My days were spent alone, in the hayloft reading books, or out in the woods and fields dreaming up my own reality. The older I became the more it seemed I lived in two worlds; one foot in this world, and the other in an imaginary world of fantastic creatures and fantasy friends.

I became that 'dark child' in truth, the one who spent her free time alone, lost in books, or drawing or simply thinking. I had no friends; the fact that we lived well away from the school or the small town adjacent did not help. I spent time with the mares, with two in particular, my favorite confidants. On those terrible nights when sleep was elusive and the darkness besieged my mind, it was there my Da would find me in the morning, tucked in either stall amongst the hay and sometimes cradled beneath a sleeping mare's neck.

I loved books, and my mind refused to stay within the sharply defined boundaries prescribed by the Church. My curiosity was not to be denied, and therefore more than once I was caught by the nuns with books that were anathema to the good Catholic; Biology, Astronomy, Theology, Anatomy. I read every book in the 'sciences' section of the town lending library, and twice, I had been caught by the nuns leaving with books that made their faces red, voices strident and loud. "You, Aislyne Maire Butler, you take that back right now or I'll be telling the Father!" I clutched the book on Evolution, or Anatomy close and ran home. I had no fear of the nuns, only that they would grab the book and I would not be allowed to read it.

I walked the woods fearlessly at night, and animals did not fear me, nor did they seek to harm me. In the old ways, I would be considered a 'changeling', a kelpie; a lost soul who had taken the form of a child. Perhaps the old ways were truer than we know, and I should have died, then, at birth.

As I reached my early teens I frequently felt my body was not mine and there was no comfort in the living I did. I was awkward and ungainly through most of my early puberty, always a head taller than anyone else. As boys became men around me, I still kept my height advantage, and to my chagrin, I seldom had partners who were not a brother, or that my da did not have to 'buy' for dances. Yet I was strong, healthy and as comely as one could be with minimal breasts and legs that seemly grew out from my shoulders. My father called me his "_pollairean_" which in the 'ald tongue was a long legged bird that spent it days in mud pits.

There were many nights as a child when I would not sleep, but lay, exhausted and wakeful, as angry faces and hurtful words cycled across my memory; the whispers behind hands, the knowing looks, the giggles and unkind laughter of my peers, classmates, the nuns. Increasingly I was being shunned by all but my family.

Little did I know that someday I would know even that.

I was not an affectionate child, as I did not feel deserving to receive what I could not give. There was a hollowness inside me that made anything I gave in return feel counterfeit and worthless, an insult to the intended recipient. How I longed for the love and affection of my parents, wished to have friends, wanted to be accepted, despite the darkness and wickedness that seemed to have my very soul in thrall.

Eventually I pulled away from everyone, closed myself to any but the creatures that inhabited my imagination and nighttime world, and my sisters and brothers who seemed oblivious to the dark evil within me. By my thirteenth year, I frequently contemplated my own death. We had moved from Ireland to London by then, due in part to my troubles with Catholic neighbors and the religious faculty at the only school. As a result, I no longer had the broodmares and woods for company and solace. There were weeks and months when I could see no color in my world but grey and black; nights so bleak they granted no rest.

I prayed that I would not live a long life. There was no way that it could ever be a happy one.

* * *

Breakfast was nowhere near as entertaining without Abriguan there to push de'Chagny into rank immaturity. Together they were annoying and childish, but de'Chagny was as dull as mud alone. Madame de'Chagny was 'indisposed' and having a light breakfast in her room.

I was fatigued and dispirited, and my eyes were ringed 'round with the bruises of a near-sleepless night.

I imagine de'Chagny took one good look at me and decided he would leave me to the demons that assailed me, instead of offering himself as fresh meat. I have no doubt I would have chewed him up and spat him out like a hungry dog does a leather shoe had he engaged me in contentious debate. My conversation with his wife, the resulting need to rush to procure her competent care, even as I pulled at the bit to free my 'patient'...

I was feeling overwhelmed.

I think I became somewhat unpleasant with him at the table after he administered the third noncommittal grunt from behind the racing gazette, his only response to my attempts at divining information as to when, where, how, and so on. Twice he flashed measuring peeks past his paper to see if I was moving to assault him (I am guessing). He certainly looked wide-eyed enough.

I finished my toast, poured the tea down my neck, and with a curt 'pardon me' abruptly departed. Upon reaching my room, I called upon Mariette to help me dress in my summer riding habit, and went to troll the stables for a likely mount.

Four hours later I cantered back to the stables after an action-packed morning spent working the kinks out of the fine grey-going-white Arabian mare I had talked the stable boy into allowing me ride. I knew nothing about her other than the fact the boy was sure she would kill me. I liked her looks, she was definitely sound and old enough to ride (I looked at her teeth), and she was tall and wide enough to use up my long leg. I was my usual arrogant horsewoman-type self, and demanded tack; the boy was not going to gainsay me, but certainly did not offer to help kit her out. Once saddled, the mare and I worked on her manners. Within half of the first hour she was standing quietly, keeping teeth and heels to herself, and I mounted up. We made several rounds of the paddock, working on 'Whoa' and 'Go', and the boy opened the gate at my signal.

It was an exhilarating ride, and I felt renewed and at peace upon delivering the lovely, now biddable mare back into the tender care of the stable boy. Upon entering the side entrance to the de'Chagny home, I met a fuming de'Chagny at the door.

"Where the hell have you been!" he yelled. I expected him to start hitting things and dancing around in a circle like an angry little kid.

He struck the side table several times with his knuckles, as if beating the answer out of me, and walked a circle or two about the entrance hall.

I offered a civil show of contrition, "I went for a ride. I do apologize, and request you do not punish the young man currently at the barn. I demanded a horse, and then I rode it."

The Vicomte stopped, and seemed a bit bemused by my answer. "You went for a ride? Alone?"

I snorted, and swung my riding crop at my skirt.

"May I ask which horse you rode, as we have no ladies' mounts, or any saddle horses at all!"

Oh! I thought about that. "Well, you have a perfectly good saddle broke Arabian mare…now. Although, I don't recommend her to any 'ladies'" I leaned heavily on the last word. I had no patience with his chauvinistic attitudes today.

His jaw became somewhat wide as he clenched his teeth, and I turned on my heel and headed up the stairs to change, all the way feeling as ill-bred as I had acted. At the halfway mark, de'Chagny decided to respond to my statement. "The only Arabian mare we have belonged to my brother. She has never been ridden since arriving, as she was considered far too high-strung for him to ride anyway."

I turned on the stairway, and thought how terrible I was to have ridden his dead brother's horse, without permission. I might have stammered an apology. My face no doubt matched the de'Chagny livery in color.

The Vicomte held up his hand to still me, and continued, "And several messages were received for you while you were gone. One was delivered from the Director of a Women's Hospital about an hour ago, and the man who delivered it is waiting for your answer in the kitchen."

Excusing myself, I made an unladylike rush down the stairs and headed for the servants hall and the kitchen.

* * *

Mariette assisted me in cleansing myself of dust and sweat, and I dressed for an afternoon to be spent in the Paris suburb of Batignolles, an industrial center on the Right Bank area of Paris.

Of the messages received, two were direct offers to fill the position from individuals, and one an invitation to meet with the Nurses' Society of Paris in a weeks' time to request applicants. I discarded the NSP invitation, and put the requests on the desk. My acquaintance at the Hôpital de Pour was deceased, as per a very civil note from the new president of the society. The last, however, had set wings upon my heart; a personal note from the Directress of the Hôpital Charitable pour des Femmes, located near one of the more desperate areas of the city.

Louisa Thériault 'nee Owens, had worked with me for several years at Nettles, while the Home was under the uneven management of a German doctor of psychiatric. This brute had thwarted many of our efforts to institute the new order of compassionate care as advocated by Jean-Baptiste Pussin, of the Asylum de Bicêtre, in Paris. The 'Hun' sorely tested my resolve to continue in my career. Louisa reminded me that we had nothing else but time, so we simply outlasted him. He finally left under a cloud with charges brought against him by several patients and nearly all the female staff. I was chagrined to note at the time I was the only woman he had _not _pressed his degenerate attention on, including the fully mustached female morning clerk.

Louisa and I spent many days with Lucinda Abrigaun during the end of her illness, spelling each other at her bedside as the pain and nausea wrung the last bit of life from Lucinda's body. Louisa developed a few of her more militant ideas at the bedside of this little woman, having been given full disclosure of the ugly secrets of her case.

Louisa decided marriage and childbirth were for women who were genuinely without other inclination, and not to be forced upon one. Therefore, women had to be given the same rights of education, occupation and social station whatever their marital status. She swore no man would ever use her as a punching bag. She developed a self-defense program based upon boxing as well as a plethora of dirty tricks and low blows, and taught the class to an interested group of local women.

I shudder to think the first time any of this dubious 'defense' was used upon an attacking male; if he survived the eye-gouging, gonad-thumping and instep cracking, I'm sure he would then kill his tormentor. I, personally, advocated a sensible system of minimization of risk, and screaming like a _bin sidhe_ if accosted. I also liked the idea of a small pistol in one's handbag and a keen desire to use it when necessary.

Throughout the difficult years Lou had been my sounding board while I raised my three little sisters and one spoiled brother, usually giving me reason to bless the fact they were not _all _boys. My poor mother had raised that lot herself. We had become close enough I had explained my 'dark child' legacy, and she was kind enough to not pronounce it hogwash and my grandma Muldoon a cracked thunder jug.

Dressed appropriately demure for a visit to a charity hospital, I directed the de'Chagny carriage to the Hôpital Charitable Pour des Femmes, located in the eastern side of the city. The afternoon had turned warm, with a zephyr of breeze. This was to prove a blessing once we had turned into the St. Denis area, as the ghastly smell of the metal manufacturing plants filled the air. I employed a hanky and cursed my burning eyes.

The Hospital was very large square structure, originally built to serve as a warehouse or manufacturing plant. Windows were plentiful across the front on every floor, and the lowest level was concrete with red-brick overlay. Despite the warmth of the day, every window was tightly closed. The carriage driver cautioned me several times to 'watch my bag' as we approached the drive to the entrance, and then assured me he would sit tight until I returned. I asked that he water the horses, at least, as I knew I would be at least an hour.

I was directed to Directress Thériault's office by a young lady who sat behind the desk at the clinic entry. She was neatly dressed in a light blue uniform, with a white apron pinned to the front, and small kerchief affixed to her hair. All the staff that I saw thereafter were similarly dressed. I was thus reassured that Louise had not changed; she felt that cleanliness and appearance fostered confidence and trust between care staff and their patients. The hospital was also quiet, with no agitated patients screaming or moaning. Again, Louisa believed a noisy patient was one who needed attention, and attention was the first order of any healing.

Located right at the end of the busiest ward, I found her office; the door proclaiming the inhabitant as "Louisa Thériault, Directress." After a shy knock, I opened the door, and peeked into the room, only to be immediately snagged by my ears and dragged into a warm, remembered embrace.

I am ashamed to admit I burst into tears, but wish to point out that Louisa did the same. It took us over an hour to catch up, and another to trade salacious gossip about the people, professionals or patients, we knew in common. Remembering the time, I rose to speak to the driver of the de'Chagny carriage, wherein Louisa insisted she would see them sent on their way, offering her carriage to see me back to my 'lodgings. As nervous as this made me, I could only accept. I was certainly not returning to the de'Chagny's without a list of names!

Louisa brought us to business, by handing me a carefully written list of women she felt were reliable, uncomplicated by sin or vice, and available at short notice to accept the position. There were four names, with addresses and present employment noted. I looked it over briefly and looked up to express my heartfelt appreciation, but Louise made a gesture of impatience, "now put that in your bag, and give me but five minutes to make my case for the person I believe you should send to the de'Chagnys' for the position.

I gave her my complete attention, asking, "I am to assume her name is not on this list?"

"No, it is not. She is not a nurse. She is a psychiatric research student, currently living in Paris, and working here, at the hospital as an aide. You do remember what your first year as an aide was like, yes?"

I nodded, and made an unpleasant face.

"This exceptionally bright, compassionate, forward-thinking woman is now serving as the dogs-body for the Surgical-Prep ward, scrubbing flesh, feces and body fluids off the operating theatre' floors. She has never complained, has not missed one moment of work, and actually gives part of her meager wages to help support patients' families in need. She has schooled in medicine and psychiatric care, and worked as scientist, therapist, and research technician, having helped my doctors on several cases of nonspecific fevers.

"She is 28 years old, born and raised in Switzerland where her father is a respected jeweler, and her mother runs a girls' school. She has two younger sisters and one elder brother. She is healthy, unmarried, does not defile her body with alcohol, tobacco, narcotics or heavy food. She walks daily for 30 minutes as a way of de-stressing, believes in the sanctity of marriage, the rights of women, the necessity of two involved parents in a family, and the mandate for public education available for all children. She does not wear red, as it is the color of death, and deplores the current practice of women cutting their hair."

"She is a licensed Doctor of Medical Science in Switzerland, has a doctorate in Psychiatric Research in Germany, and hundreds of hours working in some of the basest bedlams in England, Germany, and France. She counsels women during our clinic on...ah ...health care. No, blast it, on birth control, also. She is skilled in infant care, partly because, like you, she found herself with two little sisters to raise as her mother was dreadfully involved in the running of her girl's school. As far as I can work out the ages, Simone was eight years of age when presented with the care of her last infant sister!

"Oh, yes...Simone was both home-schooled by her father, and self-taught until such time as she was accepted at the Marburg University, despite her gender. Simone also teaches math, natural sciences, and has done some wonderful illustrations for our classes on pregnancy and childbirth. Imagine, Aislyne! She dissected gravid females in medical school, and therefore can offer anatomically correct renditions of the birth process!"

"Oh..." I could not imagine...

Louise leaned forward and "Have I convinced you, yet?"

I closed my mouth and collected my thoughts. "I might have a question or two. Is it my turn now?"

Graciously Louisa inclined her head.

"She sounds lovely, although I might wonder why she would want to perform companion duties for a whiny eighteen-year-old prepartum."

"Simple. I have not asked her if she wanted to provide companion duties for a whiny prepartum…yet. Right now I am merely making you aware of a wonderful opportunity to provide the chance of employment to a thoroughly qualified and deserving woman."

"Oh, Lou, I see a 'righting-of-wrongs' situation in this. You may as well begin the sob story, as I will want to know why she is no longer in school anyway." My friends' rueful expression was gratifying. She had not changed a bit; still a sucker for a hard luck story.

Louisa rested her elbows on her desk, and her chin on clasped hands. "You are going to be shocked, 'Ails' darling, I know, but please hear me out." Having said that, she was silent for several seconds.

"Simone Nicollier is, as I said, a researcher with an endless curiosity for those things so overlooked by the established profession. She was dismissed from the Paris Women's College of Medical Arts due to a research project she and... ah... several other students participated in covertly, without the...sanction of her professors or the governing doctors.

Specifically..." Louisa reddened a bit and cleared her throat. "Specifically a study on women's sexual response. She and a...friend and several other couples, most of whom were married, ah..."

"Oh, Lou! No, no...!" I nearly felt out of my chair, I was laughing so hard. It was just like Louisa to believe a college student's explanation of an old fashioned orgy as being 'research'.

Louisa's finely shaped brows lost altitude and she glared at me. "I have not finished, Ails! WHY are you laughing? Of course, I thought your response would be a moral seizure, not to die of amusement."

I attempted to stifle, but of course, the pictures in my mind of naked flesh, a clipboard and stopwatch were just too much...

Louisa gave just the smallest of twitches to her lips before jumping back into her narrative, "Well, you have surprised me. Anyway, before you interrupted, I was telling you about the research project... "

I snorted, but firmly affixed my hands over my mouth.

"...from which Simone was able to glean quite a bit of information concerning female sexuality, and the clitoral versus vaginal orgasm, a subject that women just do not explore enough. She found that the average female orgasm lasts nearly twice as long as the average..."

I stopped listening, as my blood was pounding in my ears, or perhaps smothering my shocked giggles accounted for all the noise. Whatever the case, I awaited Louisa to work herself back out of the fascinating subject of feminine sexual response, and my opportunity to speak.

She stopped to draw breath, and I pounced.

"Lou, I am indeed impressed; I look forward to reading her published results in the next edition of the British Medical Journal! How sad one married couple was just not married to one another! Wives are like that, even when the cause for a husband's infidelity is 'quote' research 'unquote'."

I beamed my appreciation for the story, and then pitched my voice to a high squeak, beaming undimmed, "And you believe this... young lady... would be an excellent role model, confidant, and companion for a young matron, nay, a mere girl, just hours from being brought to childbed? Louisa is there anything else you need tell me about this... remarkable young lady? Or perhaps your current mental state!"

Louisa glared at me. Then she sighed, and kneaded her forehead. "I will admit, the young chit seems to have thrown a brilliant career away on an unsavory bit of odious study. She had a stellar academic career before this bit of insanity. 'Oh, doctor heal thyself!'"

"However, my dear Ails', what recommends her is this: she has sisters, little sisters, that she writes to constantly. I frank her letters for her because I feel that has been her lifeline while cast adrift here in Paris."

"And what of her parents. It sounds as if she grew up in an affluent home. Her parents are not helping her?"

"Well, that's the charming thing about Mademoiselle Nicollier. She emancipated herself from her parents care when she was twenty-two, by formal document. She has the decree framed and on her wall. She says no woman should expect her parents to care for her past the age of twenty-one. She really is an amazing woman!"

Louise looked at me, her face hopeful. I felt a brute, scattering her hopes before the chilly wind of reality; "Lou, I am hearing of a young lady who has done nothing but reject the status quo at every step. I am seeking a calm, reasoned companion for a young lady who is just newlywed into a well-heeled family, having been but a penniless orphan prior. I do not need her head filled with... with sexual response and women's rights, self-support and all that. I need someone who will help this young couple deal with a very trying time, without putting notions of 'separate but equal' et al...'

"No, no Aislyne. You obviously did not hear me. Mademoiselle Nicollier is a passionate advocate for marriage. She believes in God's role for women, although she leaves some room for a bit of creative moral and vocational interpretation. However, more important, she KNOWS how to respond correctly to the emotional needs of a prepartum female, whatever their age. She has vast experience in raising children, and has a close relationship with her family despite the modeling problems she encountered through her mother. She has many friends in the student community..."

"Oh, I have no doubt!"

"Now, now, let us not be catty! It is SO unattractive in women our age... Simone is a woman of cool-headed competence in an emergency, having unshakable loyalty, and compassion for all living things. More than once, I have seen her give her gloves and coat to a freezing woman, even though it meant she would go without for weeks. She actually removed the whip from the hand of a drover who was using it on his cart horse, and offered to serve him in the same manner!"

I had to smile. Louisa made a case for Simone Nicollier that practically had me dying of curiosity to meet her, if nothing else.

"Lou, understand that it is not up to me to do more than advise the Vicomte de'Chagny on whom he should hire as companion for his young wife. And, again, I have to ask; why would this young lady be prepared to accept a position so far below her ability..."

"Ails', scrubbing tile floors on one's hands and knees is not exactly within a stone's throw of her chosen field!"

"Oh, yes. I forgot." I smiled sheepishly. "And if I were to say that I have very little time left to hire the companion for the de'Chagnys, when would this paragon be available for interview."

Louisa gave me a long considering look, and steepled her fingers before her face. "Aislyne, I get the feeling that your assignment, this nursing-companion position, I feel a reluctance in you to speak about it. What exactly have you taken on, my friend? Should I be worried?"

There it was. The question I had been expecting for hours. Naturally, I wished to tell SOMEBODY, but I knew so very little myself. I looked blankly back at Louisa, "There is really nothing to it, Lou. I will be accompanying an elderly family member of the de'Chagny's to a family property somewhere in Tuscany, I believe. The gentleman in question has become somewhat... difficult...of late, and made a cake of himself over a very young woman. As his health is also delicate, they thought it best to provide long-term care, for the foreseeable future."

"Gentleman? Elderly gentleman, no less. Are you not the least bit worried that you may find yourself in a compromising position while sequestered somewhere in the wilds of Italy?"

"Have you forgotten, dear Lou? I have no reputation to protect after working for years in asylums. I am confident that the gentleman in question will find nothing in me of the least interest. I am old, bony, and as appetizing as unsalted oatmeal."

"Aislyne, you are still as naïve as hell. And as blind. Tell me you are not going alone with this old jake."

"I am not going alone. I will have an escort of four of de'Chagny's men, and I will travel with the cook/housekeeper and her husband as well as my patient. Naturally, I have my years of self-defense classes given me by 'Badgirl Louey', a right...er... millwoman with her fists if there ever was one."

"Ho ho! Touche!" Louise clapped her hands and we both had a good chuckle. "You know, I never had to use any of that. I guess my reputation as a 'rounder was the best protection."

"And I often told you that a good offense was the better defense. That is why I just scowled and looked mean whenever I found myself in a compromised situation." Being six feet tall and looking as broad as a man did not hurt, either. I never had need for anything else. "I still embrace secret longing to stomp some likely fellow in the ba..."

"NO, no, Ails', stop!" Louise had tears in her eyes, and we both had to wipe our faces. "Please, Aislyne, tell me that you will write me, from your backcountry bolt hole in Italy. I have missed you so..."

"Lou, I will write weekly faithfully, if only to talk to the only sane person I know. Pray that I can find some way of actually franking and mailing letters. I've no idea what the postal system is like in Italy."

"And, Ails', do try to avoid the randy old fellow. It would not do for you to become embroiled with a pox-ridden old French rue. Of course, perhaps you will get your chance to try out the 'midbody blow' on the old fart, and thereby cure him forever of his noxious proclivities!"

"And, I will certainly do my best to appear as unappetizing as possible, Lou. You know what a natural I am at the performing arts!"

Louise was now tapping her chin, eyes on the ceiling. "I do have one question, dear Aislyne. I am wondering what could compel you to leave your position at Nettles' and travel this far to baby-sit an elderly adolescent. Have you gone and had an 'affaire' with one of the patients? Perhaps that nice Doctor Smythe? Care to spill your budget?"

I laughed, and shook my head. "Nothing so exciting, Louey-Luv'. I've kept myself pure of thought, word and deed, much to my dismay." I had to tell her, had to tell this one person I trusted. I was practically jigging in my chair...

Nowhere did the contract state the conditions were strictly confidential, and it was not as if Lou would tell anyone, besides her husband, the Baron, who was a recluse of the first order. Rising I checked the door to her office, peeking theatrically out the door to insure no one lurked nearby. I pulled my chair to her desk, and then told her, in a whisper, the details of the contract.

"Mon Dieu and Holy Mother Afloat in Heaven," she gasped loudly, slapping her hands to her heart and head. "Aislyne, that is a ridiculous amount of money. That is an INSANE amount of money!"

I shrugged sheepishly.

"My love, my concerns for your sanity are allayed; my conviction of your employers' insanity confirmed! I cannot but wonder WHY they are willing to be so generous if the position is so uncomplicated."

Fixing one narrowed eye upon me, Louise tightened her lips. "There is more, and Ails', you faithless baggage, you are holding out."

It was time for me to go. I popped out of my seat, and widened my eyes, waving my hands. "And look at the time, Lou! The de'Chagny's are probably frantic wondering where I've gone, or rather, if I've fled Paris completely!"

She nodded her head in understanding; she was well aware that I was under rule of confidentiality. "Perhaps some time you will tell me the rest of the story, yes?"

I stopped my mugging. "You know I would tell you all, if I could, Lou. I am in the unenviable position of knowing just enough to make it interesting, but not enough to know if I'll be sorry I took the job."

With that, we walked to the entrance, and Louise's driver procured a hansom for me. After some tears and promises made, I sent the driver on.


	11. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

**Nearly an hour later, I was deposited at the de'Chagny's front doors**, greeted by the butler, and wordlessly ushered into the small salon. Despite the late hour, the de'Chagnys were there with Abrigaun. The Vicomtess was in an obvious emotional state, with red eyes and a sodden handkerchief in hand, sniffing loudly. The Vicomte looked tired and frayed in temper, striding about like a caged bear.

Abrigaun was overjoyed to see me and moved to grasp my hand in greeting. "Dearest Mademoiselle! We have these many hours awaited you.."

My attention, however, was riveted to the de'Chagnys.

The Vicomtess blew her nose and gave me a watery smile. "Did you enjoy your afternoon with your friend at the Hospital, Mademoiselle Butler?"

I nodded, and patted my bag. "I've a list of applicants for your companion, and I think we should review these and send out requests for interviews tomorrow. Also, a young lady will be coming tomorrow morning to speak with us about the position." I waited for some response from them as the silence stretched into minutes. "Is there something wrong?"

De'Chagny sighed. "We have received news important this day, that means you leave us very soon. Monsieur Bouchard is to be released into our custody tomorrow; you will then travel immediately for Italy."

Looking from one face to another I could not quite fathom why the tears and tension.

"Is this not good news? Or...is there something else I need to know?" Both de'Chagnys gave me quick looks and then turned to Abrigaun, as did I. Abrigaun's smile was reassuring and warm. "Mademoiselle, preparations are needed, and the time is short in which to make them."

After speaking to the butler, and closing the parlor doors, de'Chany and Abrigaun were kind enough to provide me with those details I lacked (or so I thought). It was a neatly thought out business, even if the slightest bit cold blooded and underhanded. I will admit that did not to bother me in the least.

De'Chagny explained, "Tomorrow morning Bouchard will be taken to the convent of the Sisters of Enlightened Peace and Silence for his requested confession and last rights by a priest. Naturally, he knows nothing of this, and has little use for religion. He will be told that he is to have this day to dress in a more dignified manner than his inmate attire, write letters, and have a fine last meal before his appointment with the guillotine.

By evening, he should be ready; Abrigaun is going to do what he can to get Bouchard into street clothes, and as unremarkable looking as he can. If Bouchard gives us any problems, we will have no choice but to drug him with laudanum, so he will be rendered incapable of protest or escape. He will be loaded into a carriage, and leave the city."

His 'ringer' will have a similar day, then to arrive at the holding cell the night before, to enjoy his final meal," added Abrigaun. "On the day appointed, _he_ will go before the guillotine, with a cowl well secured over his head, and die in Bouchard's place. I will immediately secure the body, acting at the de'Chagny's request, and it will be at once committed to consecrated ground. The world, it will forget the...crazy uncle." Abrigaun looked lost for a moment, and then visibly picked up his story. "Bouchard, however, will immediately be taken by carriage, to Corbeil, to the rail station there, wherein several private railcars had been set up for the trip to Italy. With him will be four armed men, a cook/housekeeper and her armed houseman/husband, and…a private nurse. That is you, my sweet Mademoiselle."

Abrigaun had moved to the divan where I sat, and taken a seat on the ottoman near by. He grabbed my hand at the last of his narrative.

I firmly snatched it away. "And so we waited for a man to die, in order for Bouchard to live."

De'Chagny explained, "The wait was necessitated by the fact that Bouchard faces death, and we cannot interfere or stop that. Restitution was made where possible to do so, but the families of the two men thought to have been killed by him still demand justice. To provide that the murderer of Ubaldo Pigani 'dies', we needed somebody to stand up and face the guillotine in his place. There were several men who resembled our man facing the Guillotine, and we waited until one of them was given their decree of death, wherein Abrigaun was able to push release of Bouchard's decree upon the same day."

Abrigaun sighed, "A nightmare, it has been, also! I hate the playing with judges, when they are hating me so much already." Abrigaun for all his sweet character must be a very competent lawyer to have irritated so many in the courts.

"And this man who is to die in Bouchard's place...he is not...he does not know about any of this?"

De'Chagny shook his head, "No. Mademoiselle do not shed a tear for this brute; he deserves his sentence. By his own hand he has no family, no one who cares one way or another what has happened to him. Superficially, he is a good enough match; he is tall, and will wear the cowl over his head, as do many who face the guillotine.

A very smooth plan indeed. "And when Bouchard is 'rendered incapable of protest or escape', what do you mean Abrigaun?"

Abrigaun raised a finger and winked, "I will knock him out by way of a double dose of laudanum."

"You can't mean to overdose him, surely! Laudanum is a very dangerous drug, Monsieur!"

Abrigaun seemed nonplussed. "Do you mean that I can give him too much? I just thought the more you give, the longer they sleep."

"No, no, and no! You need to dose him carefully, according to his body weight and resistance to the drug. Bouchard is in a weakened state, suffering from malnutrition…" I chewed on my thumbnail, then stated. "I am, of course, going to be in that carriage."

De'Chagny dismissed this totally with another of his airy hand waves. "Of course not, Mademoiselle! What if he was to become violent? There is no place for women at this stage of our game...you could be hurt..."

"And that, Monsieur, is the most ridiculous thing I have heard today. No place...? What do you think I have done for 20 years? Dealt with unreasonable, violent people!"

I was standing before I had given it any thought, but made the effort to keep my voice calm. I felt small fingers entangle in mine, and a tug from the Vicomtess pulled me back down on the divan. I kept my face to de'Chagny, however.

The Vicomtess de'Chagny smiled sweetly at both her husband and me. "I will admit, Raoul, it seems a bit dangerous to just dose him and hope for the best. Remember how strongly Doctor Megrét warned you about laudanum when you were taking it for your headaches..."

De'Chagny and Abrigaun both looked displeased with my meddling. Once I had regained my composure, I offered appeasingly, "I could, of course, dose him myself. I am capable and experienced in the handling of narcotics. And gentlemen, I think you have forgotten one important fact—I carry a pistol, and am a very good shot. I will not go anywhere without my handgun on my person."

De'Chagny glared at me. "You are determined to be in that coach, Mademoiselle!"

I smiled amiably. "If you are going to dose him with narcotics, then yes, I am, Monsieur!"

Abrigaun laughed, saying, "The coach, it will be crowded! You may end up with the Phant....er, Bouchard on your lap!" He smirked at me, and then seemed to reconsider. "No, no, that we can not have, eh Raoul?"

"Damn you, Abrigaun, be quiet!" The Vicomte put his hand to his head and growled. As if I had purposely manufactured the entire problem of whole cloth, de'Chagny returned to glaring at me. "There has to be another way."

Of course, in the end there was not. Because we had little time left and everybody was emotionally and physically wrought, it was decided I would perform the drugging of Jerrod Bouchard. I would keep him as tractable as I could until we had him safely in the private railcar. I would have six hours wherein he needed to be biddable.

I also found myself responsible with insuring the gentleman sufficiently altered in appearance to pass casual inspection, as doing anything with his hair beyond "wacking it off" was beyond Abrigaun. Dressing him, even to picking out clothing much less helping him dress, was something I felt a bit outside my ability, however.

"What would I know of men's clothes?" I was justly alarmed when this task was pushed upon me.

Abrigaun, naturally, had the solution. "Easily fixed, Mademoiselle; we will do shopping tomorrow before we go to the convent, and we will have clothes to put on Monsieur Bouchard!"

* * *

**I have spent the past hours brooding over my last visitors,** and most particularly, the woman. I remember every word she said, even her odd, cursing growl at the vicomte when he would have pulled her away. She had most certainly put him in his place; the lady was obviously used to being in charge of all around her!

A tall woman, she loomed over the little captain, topped the bleating de'Chagny by at least an inch. Her eyes were nearly level with mine...and fine eyes they were, the luminous green of early summer leaves, shot through with gold and silver light. Yet I had been startled to see _shadows_ there, something carefully veiled. There was that space of time when I had been held spellbound…the feeling of being touched as if she had grasped my hand firmly with hers. For the first time in years I had known…terror.

I fear she saw clearly what I must hide. Not the 'monster' stamped upon my face, but that so fiercely contained within. It sent me scuttling from the door like a cockroach from the light, putting distance between us, pulling away from the bewitchment of her voice, _her eyes…._

She looked upon my face without flinching, without distaste or pity, her gaze assessing, cool… Conversely, her emotions seemed to lay upon the surface of her face, to play across it as if dancers on a stage: curiosity, surprise, irritation…determination.

She bespelled the entire ward with a smile, exuding peace and calm, like the wafting smoke from an opium pipe.

Sleepless, I pondered her words yet again; her defense of de'Chagny, her request I control my behavior, and finally, the words '_A Mhuirnín, you are not forgotten_', spoken in the old tongue, unheard since my time with the gypsies. The sound of '_my dear_' rolling sweetly off her tongue had caught me off guard, nailing my feet to the spot where she left me, for minutes afterward.

No _jeune fille_, seeking a few moments titillating terror; no jaded _vaniteuse_, wishing to flash herself before the ultimate lover...the devil himself. So...who was she? And why had de'Chagny brought her here?

And why can I not push her from my thoughts?

By the following day I have convinced myself the entire episode was but a vivid dream…perhaps part and parcel of the nightmare I ride through my restless sleep, night after night. Or…an opium flashback brought on by lack of sleep and a broken mind.

I no longer doubt my state of madness; the very fact I could convince myself Christine was here with me, actually touching my hand, my forehead…it makes my chest ache. I do admit, I would have given anything for the madness of Christine's presence to continue for…just a few days more.

Directeur Morneau visited my cell this very evening, and read aloud the official ruling by the Criminal Court of Justice on the murder charges filed upon the deaths of Joseph Bouqet and Ubaldo Piangi.

The first was dropped for lack of evidence; the second was ruled first degree with premeditation. I turn away to hide my tears from the man's piercing, dissecting gaze. I am innocent…innocent…but realize I am guilty, if not of these murders, of many, many more.

Later, during the period of total darkness that is 'night' in this nightmare world, I remember the woman expressed the peculiar idea I would be soon out of this 'oubliette…that we would meet again. Obviously, the woman is a demon, for if indeed she will see me again, it will be in Hell.

Almost I throw back my head to fill the silent ward with mad laughter at my cleverness, but I no longer find reason to frighten or intimidate anyone, much less to laugh.

Erik, the Opera Ghost, has received his death sentence.


	12. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Promptly at the 10 a.m. hour, Mademoiselle Simone Nicollier was ushered into the parlor. Christine de'Chagny moved to greet her; I stayed sitting, in the background. The mademoiselle was very aware of me, however, and for a moment she studied me politely, then gave her complete attention to Madame de'Chagny.

I sat back and allowed the Vicomtess and Simone become acquainted first. It gave me a chance to look for particular mannerisms and speech patterns that might contraindicate Mademoiselle Nicollier as a suitable companion for the Vicomtess de'Chagny.

I also wished to study this woman who was willing to compromise her reputation in the name of 'research'.

Simone Nicollier certainly did not fit my idea of a godlessly wicked and wanton woman. Her appearance was impeccably neat; her smooth black hair pulled into a tight, unfussy bun, her clothing clean and crisply pressed, but obviously patched and repaired. A small medical case, an umbrella, and neat straw boater were in her left hand, and she was careful to place them out of the way at her feet. She sat fully on the divan, and did so with knees lightly together. My mother had always nagged me on just this subject, for my knees were as repellent to each other as the wrong ends of magnets. I was impressed.

Simone had an honest and open expression, that remained upon her face throughout the interview. Her gaze was both fearless and respectful; I saw nothing hidden there.

She and Madame de'Chagny spoke politely of the weather, the view from the sitting room window, the drive to the estate, during which Simone carefully...and covertly ...studied Madame de'Chagny. Quite suddenly Simone's entire demeanor altered, and after first congratulating Christine on her 'happy event, gently inquired of her thoughts and expectations for the coming birth. After a moment's pause, I saw something in Christine's eyes that buoyed my own spirits immensely: _relief_. Shyly at first, but with growing confidence Christine confided her anxiety and excitement, her hopes and fears. Simone, in turn, validated Christine's feeling and concerns, giving her something else she'd had little of: honest answers. The mademoiselle finally patted Madame de'Chagny's hand with silent reassurance.

Christine looked to me, and smiling widely, said, "Help me, Please?" as she awkwardly pushed herself to the edge of the chair. She immediately found both Simone and me at the sides of her chair, having jumped from our seats to aid her. Madame de'Chagny laughed, and grabbed our hands, allowing us to bring her to her feet. Once she felt steady enough to release us, Christine formally introduced me to Mademoiselle Nicollier as her 'advisor' in the selection of a nurse-companion, wherein Simone curtsied prettily, but then offered her hand, shaking mine with a strong, confident grip. I liked that too.

Christine excused herself, having given me her unspoken enthusiastic approval of Simone Nicollier. I waited until she had pulled the parlor door shut behind her. We then got down to 'brass tacks' as my father would have said, and Simone Nicollier and I spoke of things I feel it best not to disclose.

One half-hour later, I took Simone Nicollier's hand and patted it warmly. I called upon the butler to send the housekeeper to me so that we could arrange for the retrieval of Mademoiselle Nicollier's few things, and install her in suitable quarters within call of Vicomtess de'Chagny's suite.

I penned an immediate note to Louisa Theibault, congratulating her on the loss of her favorite employee.

Abrigaun's handsome and roomy landau pulled before the residence right before the noon hour, upon which time everything I owned was loaded into the luggage box, while he and de'Chagny sequestered themselves in the library. My luggage had increased by one large trunk; Christine de'Chagny packed bedding and towels, blankets and house wares of every stripe, to insure I had a few "comfortable things" about me. As we would be opening the de'Chagny property after a two-year closure, she was afraid the retainers might have stripped it of such things. Such is life in Tuscany, I gather.

Eventually Abrigaun and de'Chagny appeared, and suddenly I was standing before the steps of the massive de'Chagny residence, whilst the two men argued over the horses drawing the equipage.

It was hard for me to say goodbye to Christine de'Chagny. She did look as serene and settled as ever I had seen her since arriving three days before. I hugged her and gently rested my hand upon her belly, and then turned to Simone and with a look, reminded her of our conversation. She smiled and nodded.

Madame de'Chagny was in excellent hands.

The next three hours were spent in Abrigaun's company, visiting the milliners, haberdasheries and men's clothiers located in the 'Sentier' district on the Rue de Richelieu. It appeared those shops that carried like merchandise clustered together, with a half-dozen or more in one city block. So it was we visited door-to-door milliners, leather goods, and so on. Men's clothiers offered _'__prêt-à-porter'_ or 'off-the-peg' clothing, although it is usually in need of some alteration to personalize leg length, sleeve length and so on.

We were able to pick out several pairs of trousers, in dark blue, grey, brown and black, and shirts in white and self-striped in linen, silk, and cotton. Abrigaun matched these with wescots of silk and light wool, as well as the newly fashionable 'sack' and dinner jackets. We then went for 'sport' wear; heavier trousers, and shirts of chambray or oxford cotton with a stripe and buttons instead of studs. One Norfolk, or shooting, jacket in French twill, as well as one in English wool was approved by Abrigaun. Both a formal topcoat as well as a driving coat of charcoal wool were added to the purchases. I was given the task of looking at hats...no man set foot beyond his door without a hat! I found myself in over my head...in my experience, hats were either silly or stuffy, and I would not pick out either. Abrigaun picked out a dark grey fedora, a Hamburg in black, and a leather cap of the type that the Irish called a 'sculler' but that Abrigaun referred to as a 'driving cap'. I thought it ridiculous looking and said so.

This completed my participation in the shopping. Abrigaun then went to work picking out smallclothes, sleep wear, and such things as a man knows about and I would prefer to remain clueless.

We guessed at Bouchard's boot size. I said 'big' and Abrigaun said, "I guess."

Abrigaun was very pleasant company, as he was funny, charming, and relentless in his flatteries. Nevertheless, I kept in mind his marital state, and beyond tucking my hand into his arm, I kept everything else out of reach. He was a habitual hugger and toucher, and I gave him several set-downs for it.

Upon reaching the landau, Abrigaun set out travel-appropriate clothing, the entire miscellany required, and the boots. I put what I would need to get Monsieur Bouchard clean, groomed, and looking like he belonged with me instead of locked in a bedlam.

Lastly, I tucked the small vial of laudanum in my left skirt pocket.

It had already been a very long morning, and I felt the stress of the past several days in my neck and shoulders. Soon the man would be right here, safe and under my care. I felt some anxiety and a ponderous sense of responsibility. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the squabs of the coach seat. Abrigaun too was quiet, for which I was thankful. I was weary of telling him to hush, of slapping his hands and pushing him to a decorous distance.

Eventually we pulled before the Sisters of Enlightened Silence and Peace, located in the Montmarte' district of Paris. Abrigaun helped me alight from the carriage and handed down my parcels. He then retrieved the leather case that contained a completely new life for Jerrod James Bouchard, and we stepped into the quiet world of the Sisters of Enlightened Silence and Peace.

**********************

Sitting at a small escritoire, with several sheets of foolscap neatly centered before me, I find I cannot concentrate on the task at hand. Instead I am riveted by the sights and sounds from outside the unshuttered double window before me. Despite the final tasks I need accomplish before they come for me, I cannot help but just look out the window. How long has it been since I did so during daylight? Years? At least a decade! How could I have been so ignorant of the vast entertainment to be had in just...looking out the window?

The constant passage of people and livestock; the sounds, movement and colors, against the backdrop of weathered buildings, faded sky, and dusty cobblestones. Not unlike an opera production, the color and life and beauty are with the players and their

voices, not the humble staging.

At first I see only the widest picture: a wide street, worn both rutted and smooth from the generations of traffic upon it's cobbled surface, of horse drays and donkey carts, push wagons and the humble equipages of the businessmen who have their shops along the street. There is no walk upon this side, as the tall iron-barred fence that surrounds the convent runs beside the street. Shops line the opposite side with a wooden walkway set several inches above ground level. A whitewashed bakery at the corner attracts customers by sense of smell; beside it is a peeling rust-red butcher's shop with wide gold lettering across the window stating, "Boeuf, Porc, & Poulet". There is an open stall grocery with green-painted trays full of small onions, carrots, tight-headed cabbages and wilted lettuces, surrounded by last fall's hard pears and small apples. The apothecary is next, it's façade unpainted, the cracked window displaying fly-blown hard candies and bottled nostrums. The shop is shared by a man who pulls teeth and cuts hair, his rough-lettered sign posted upon his makeshift barber's chair in front of the shop. Today he has given many haircuts; a pile of hair has been swept to the street. Thankfully, there is no sign of bloody teeth.

A tall stone post, one of several that support the convent's iron fence, blocks my view any further to the right, but I am content with the stage I have.

Those who walk past wear their lives on their faces, their expressions suggesting the tenor thereof. There are those which speak of struggle and discontent, and just as many who look satisfied, or embrace living with pleasure. The majority of those who pass down the street are women…and always, the basket or bundle in arms, on the shoulders or balanced upon the head. They travel in pairs, or small groups, wooden pattens clacking in synchronicity, heads bobbing as they chatter and gossip. The men who pass seldom stroll, nor do they look into the shop windows. I have seen few with anything to carry…unless accompanied by women. I find this amusing and laugh, drawing looks from the four men who share the room with me.

Dogs accompanied by packs of children tear along the street, raising the dust, and causing one unaccompanied horse to sidle and snort. A child trips and falls, her crying attracting several matrons who immediately surround her, clucking and inspecting her skinned knees. A very young woman appears and wading into the flock surrounding her wounded child, grabs her and leaves, with remonstrations and suggestions being thrown at her back.

Listening to the sounds outside the window, watching the color and energy, alive to the repeating forms and patterns as the same tasks are played in different scale and mode…I realize there is much in life that is exactly like music. There is texture and dynamics, rhythm and harmony, melody and pitch, consonance and dissonance. These elements are involved in our relationships with others, our relationship with ourselves; in the way we see our lives, and in the way we live them. Looking out the window I can both see and hear the music of children's laughter, and the gossiping women who now stand where they gathered to inspect the fallen child. The sound of shoes upon the walk, hooves upon cobbles, the sound of the bell at the butcher shop, and the squeaking door at the bakery…it is all a constantly renewed piece written in fugue form.

And where is my voice...my music..._my life_ to be heard in this great composition?

Hidden. Silent. Unseen and unheard, a note not played. Or a dark, low note perhaps occasionally heard from the bowels of the earth. Nothing, nothing…

I sigh and close my eyes, the memory of the epiphany I found in the stygian dark of my cell during the preceding night now firmly realized.

Very well… If I could not live like a man, I will at least die as one.

Eventually I am able to write a full letter to Antoinette Giry, expressing my appreciation for all she did for one ghastly and inconvenient lost soul, and my hope that the funds I moved into her account would make up for the ghastly mess I made of her and little Giry's lives.

I beg her forgiveness and ask that she pray for me. I sign it, 'Your Servant, Erik.'

The hardest note has already been written a thousand times in my mind. It therefore takes but a few moments to put it down on the paper. It is brief and to the point: 'Dearest Christine, I cannot undo my actions nor the pain and terror you suffered because of them. I would sell my soul to do so, if that were possible. Nonetheless, I hope that someday you can think of me fondly, and forgive this wicked fiend, whose only wish was to keep you near him, as he could not bear life without you. Please be happy.'

I sign it 'Love, Your Angel."

There is nothing else I can say; nothing I can ask of her…even to request her prayers for my black, wasted soul is too much to ask. It is in thinking of Christine that I find acceptance for the brutal end awaiting me. I deserve to die…every moment of fear and palpitating dread…for the ordeal I laid upon her innocent back.

Folding and sealing both letters, I address and lay them neatly on the desk for delivery.

And wait for what comes next for me.

Very early this morning, I had been visited in my cell by the little captain, personally delivering my 'breakfast' of stale bread and rank cheese. Charvoit informed me I was to be given the opportunity to seek absolution from a priest, eat a fine meal served in a more salubrious setting, as well as go to my execution clean, and dressed as a gentleman. I cannot say I was overly concerned regarding the state of my soul, but the idea of a decent meal, as well as facing the ordeal properly dressed appealed to me enough to submit to the indignity of being trussed up in chains.

After being brought from my cell, manacled and leg-chained, I was marched to a carriage with bars upon the windows, blindfolded by means of a heavy hood pulled over my head, and accompanied by a burly guard who rode in the carriage with me, a gun poked against my neck. After a bit I ignored him, enjoying the fresh air available through the slits in the back of the hood. 'Fresh air' eventually became damned cold, however, dressed as I was in thin cotton trousers and tunic, and barefoot. We stopped twice, wherein two more people joined us in the carriage, one of which had the foul smell of the dockside prison about him. Our journey became a series of turns and stops, one of which meant the departure of the other three men.

I therefore arrived at the convent alone. I was lead to this room and left with four guards, who stripped off my hood and chains. When the hood came off, there was a bit of superstitious muttering, and hissing through teeth at the state of my face. It quickly became obvious none knew who I really was; the senior guard grabbed my chin and after a squint-eyed look, remarked, 'he was in a fire; no doubt.' In the process of removing my chains…to which I submitted without moving unless asked to do so, the same man patted my shoulder, as if petting a dog, and then adjured the other men to 'shoot him in the gut if he tries to escape. Somebody wants to see him alive on the bascule.

The idea of forcing them to shoot me had occurred to me, merely to cheat the bloodthirsty crowd that would surely be at the Place de la Concorde to watch the 'Opera Ghost' die.

I have since reconsidered; being gut-shot will only make the wait for the blade a great deal worse.

I was directed to the desk and waiting notepaper, where I have spent the remainder of the morning, except for the occasional visit to the privy. I am attended by the senior guard, who considerately ignores me. Upon the occasion of the noon hour, I am brought a plate of sliced ham, fresh bread, and one each apple and pear, most of which is surely from right across the street.

I wonder if that was to be the extent of my promised 'decent meal'.

There is a sharp rapping upon the door, and the guards curse and scramble to hide evidence of their game of pitch penny, engaged to pass the time. The senior guard opens the door to a fine gentleman standing in the hallway; there is whispering, as well as the pressing of several gold coins into the guard's hand. The gentleman has his other hand extended to an unseen companion; with a rustle of skirts and the snap of heels upon stone, a feminine voice calls out, "Excuse me, please!" Briskly the woman pushes past the gentleman blocking her progress into the room, ignoring his hand as well as the guard at the door. She marches into the room to stop dead upon sighting me sitting at the window, twisted about in response to the commotion at the door. I abandon my chair, and we stand for a moment, eyeing one another.

I am not surprised to see her again, yet cannot say I am happy to do so. She appears quite happy to see me. Pulling off her gloves and bonnet, she dispenses with polite discourse, coming immediately to the point. In a warm, lightly lyrical voice she declares, "A very good day, Monsieur. We meet again!" I am staggered by the sheer _'pleasure'_ in her expression; how can it be she is that pleased to look upon this doomed and ruined man?

I am immediately discomfited to find myself over conscious of my dress and disorder, and dislike intensely the idea of being at a disadvantage with this woman, however benign her intentions.

Drawing my expression to one of brooding menace, I fold myself into a self-derisive bow, and allow my distaste for her ill-timed cheer to color my voice. "As you assured me, Madame, we do indeed meet again." Snorting inelegantly, I hold out my arms to display my sartorial limitations to advantage, asking her, "And I do apologize for the shocking state of my dress…unsuitable for such lovely company. So…have you come then to _console_ me before my visit with the guillotine?" I grin nastily, wagging my single intact eyebrow.

The woman neither blushes, nor do her eyes waver from my face; a hint of appreciative humor actually twitches upward one side of her lips. Her smile seems to shift just a bit as she says, "Monsieur, I am _not here_ to prepare you for a trip to the guillotine." And with that, she turns to set a satchel of indeterminate items upon the small metal cot that divides the room and rummages busily through it.

Confused, I can only wonder at the woman's ambiguity. I cannot help feeling that perhaps I am dealing with the insane person here.

Looking to the guards who remain in the room, Madame Cut-Peace points toward the door and firmly requests they leave; to my utter horror, they do so, although one proclaims loudly he will remain right outside the door should they be needed. The woman bestows an open smile upon the mountebank, but once the door closes, she sighs and grimaces. "Frenchmen," she murmurs with a shake of the head.

Now the young man who obviously accompanies this mysterious madam steps forward, and clutching his stylish stovepipe hat to his silk-covered breast states, "Monsieur, I would have a moment of your time, please."

Switching my eyes from the Madame's elegant neck…to which I have developed the faintest fancy to encircle strongly with my hands…I growl distractedly, "Do I have a choice?"

And indeed…am I not his captive audience, unable to refuse my remaining hours, much less one moment, to anyone? I see now my last day upon God's earth will be spent in the company of this well-dressed fool and a mad woman…who is setting out jars and brushes, a keenly pointed scissors in her hand. She slips these into her pocket with a straight look to me. I privately acknowledge her wisdom in doing so…but shake my head, now openly regretting the loss of peace and quiet so lately enjoyed at the window. I look to the young man, saying, "Speak. I am listening."

"Monsieur, my name is Montague Abrigaun; this is Mademoiselle Aislyne Butler. I have brought you clothes, suitable for our purposes, as well as those things necessary to prepare you for…ah… If you please, I will call for a bath now."

Ah. The Madame…er…mademoiselle is here to… But wait…did she not say, 'I am not here to prepare you for a trip to the guillotine?' I find I am rubbing my prickly face, giving serious thought to demanding my visitors get the hell out and leave me alone; there is something here that makes no sense!

Nevertheless, my whiskery chin reminds me I do not wish to go through this ordeal dressed in rags and dirt. I resolve, again, to look as a man, to act as a man, and not the hideous, insane fiend all of Paris…and France…expect of me! Therefore, I stretch my face into a most uncomfortable expression of appreciation, saying, "Monsieur, please accept my gratitude." Aware that the woman has regained her wide, cheerful smile, I cannot help but to turn to her, saying, "Am I to take my bath before this lovely woman?" again lifting my singular brow.

My friend Abrigaun immediately stiffens, his entire demeanor turning most unfriendly. Ah…what is this?

Mademoiselle Butler merely raises her head from contemplation of the jars and brushes she has laid out, and displays that same tiny amused twitch. "Well, no, I am leaving now, Monsieur Bouchard. You look _very_ capable of giving yourself a bath, sirrah! Later, I will be cutting your hair, I've also shampoo and soap, tooth powder and a brush here for your use..."

Patting her hands together, she nods her head to Monsieur Abrigaun, her eyes cool, and sweeps out the door…only to appear at the edge once more, saying, "I will tell the sisters we need the bath. Abrigaun, you will tell me when I need to cut his hair, yes?" She again turns her full smile upon me, to say, "Please excuse me, Monsieur." With that she finally disappears. Abrigaun has acquired a painfully sour look upon his face. I turn away to hide my amusement.

While Abrigaun and I studiously ignore each other, two young men manhandle a large metal bath into the room, setting it on the stone floor before the fired hearth. A bucket brigade terminating with the young men pouring hot and cool water soon has the tub filled, surrounded by floor rugs.

I waste no time stripping off and immersing myself in the hot bath, wherein happily wreathed with steam, I helplessly utter such groans and sighs of pleasure as to cause alarmed mortification to all but the most voyeuristic of onlookers. Abrigaun retreats across the room and turns his back, a show of consideration I appreciate more than I will admit.

After a thorough scrubbing and hair washing, I utilize the toothpowder and brush, rinsing with a mouthful of cool water from the rinse bucket. Feeling utterly renewed, I enjoy several long minutes of mindless relaxation, eyes closed.

Reality is not to be denied, however, and recall of what the morning brings catches me unguarded. A familiar hollow ache crushes any joy from the moment. Cursing, I cover the open side of my nose, and slip beneath the cooling water to hide my rising panic and the onset of shameful tears. I stay just so until the ache in my chest is that of oxygen deprivation, not desperate terror. Lungs on fire, I surface to hear Abrigaun speaking, a large towel suspended from the man's hand.

"I thought Monsieur, you would not be coming back up."

It is a nice towel, nothing like one would expect to find in a convent. I ignore Abrigaun's foolish statement…surely he does not believe I have the ability to drown myself in a tin bath! I move to sink below the surface again, only to be arrested by his most peculiar manner in addressing me...

"Monsieur Bouchard, we are on a very, very tight schedule, and the Mademoiselle, she has yet to shave you and to cut your hair. We must..."

"I am in no hurry, Monsieur...Abrigaun." The man annoys me with his talk of schedules! "Unlike you, I have little time left to enjoy life's pleasures. My appointment with La Guillotine comes soon enough." I purposefully turn my face left, knowing the right looks threatening. "And who is '_Bouchard_?'"

Abrigaun swiftly puts finger to lips, and lowers his voice, apparently unimpressed by my implied threat in his rush to secure my silence. "_Bouchard is now your name. Jerrod James Bouchard_." His voice returns to a normal volume, and he continues. "That may once have been the truth for you, Monsieur Bouchard, but it is no longer. You will not be keeping Madame Guillotine's appointment, provided we are out of the city tonight with you unrecognized. For this reason it is important Mademoiselle Butler tend your appearance…No, no! Monsieur, wait...wait!"

I have heard enough. The man is just as mad as the mademoiselle he accompanies. It is for the few brief, exhilarating seconds wherein I felt the thunderous rush of glorious hope that I now seek to punish…no, _throttle _…this impudent fool! I will stuff his ill-thought joke back down his forcefully constricted neck!

I leap from the tub…an effort made possible only as it is entirely fueled by sheer violence and rage. Grabbing the towel from Abrigaun's nerveless fingers, I twist my right hand cruelly into his cravat, and lift the man to his toes. Water sloshes everywhere, and I become immediately mindful of the chill of the room upon those parts of me previously toasty-warm in the bath. I am afraid my teeth will soon begin to chatter unless I can kill this fool quickly, or better, figure out what the devil he means by this dastardly charade!

Pulling him up close to my face, I hiss, "Repeat that last part, please."

Abrigaun's hands fortunately make no move to return the favor of a thoughtless grab at my exposed person, and his eyes are now round with real fear. In a voice distorted to an amusing quack by the pressure to his larynx, he moans, "Please, Monsieur, that is why you are brought to this place. I beg you, release me and we will talk of this while you dress..."

Yes, I am definitely weak…my arm wants to shake with the weight of the well-fed fop hanging by his cravat. Plus, the man's face is turning an alarming color. I want to hear what he has to say…so I release him with a shove that sends him safely sprawled upon the overstuffed settee next to the fireplace. Abrigaun lands gracelessly, but quickly recovers, hand upon his heaving chest. I dry myself, belatedly self conscious due to my state of undress. And the cold…I grit my teeth to stop an incipient chatter.

After a few minutes, wherein I begin pulling on the clothing set out for me, Abrigaun is recovered enough to say, "Monsieur, I assure you, this is no amusing fiction. The man who will die tomorrow will be…_not you_. You will be traveling upon the train bound for Italy as…" He lowered his voice, "Jerrod Bouchard."

Abrigaun has again turned his back, although he is a great deal more careful about it. I am inspecting the trousers laid out for me; I cannot like the medium grey, however nice the fabric. Once I have them on they prove to be on the loose side…but there is a nice set of braces supplied to keep them from falling down over my scrawny hips. I am relieved to see the trousers are long enough…I _could not_ wear too short trousers! I concentrate on fitting them smoothly over the blouse of white polished linen, made with inset sleeves, attached cuffs and soft, standup collar. Thus I firmly hold at bay the swell of possibly premature relief, joy, hope…

Abrigaun stands with his back to me, yet obviously on alert to my slightest move. Idly I ask, "To whom do I owe my release, Monsieur? You? De'Chagny?"

Abrigaun gives me a most ungentlemanly glare, asserting firmly, "No, Monsieur, of a certainty not me. And although de'Chagny is involved in a small way, I cannot divulge who, ultimately, has made these arrangements, so do not ask."

Oh, can he not, then? "Very well, then tell me this: _**Why**_?" I cannot help snapping at him in anger, even in the face of the blessing I have…may have…received. I am to accept this boon without question?

The waistcoat is a soft dove grey with notched collar, blue and gold embroidery down the button placket, and a watch pocket; a lovely example of what money can buy on short notice. It is a tad large on me, gaping at arms and neck, but I cannot stifle my sigh of contentment in wearing real clothing again. I pull on finely woven black silk stockings, garter them securely, and look to the boots. I do not like Havana brown, but they fit acceptably without rub or pinch.

Abrigaun is meanwhile stalling, using one of the towels to dry his own impeccable boots and trousers, having become wringing wet from my abrupt exit from the bath. When he does at last stand upright, he again puts finger to lips and whispers, "Why? Because there is an individual who feels that your...talents, should not be destroyed upon the dubious claim you were responsible for Umbaldo Piangi's death. This individual wants the man who composed 'Don Juan'; the artist who designed so many beautiful sets and costumes; the _unseen genius_ whose production and direction of 'le grand opera' made the talentless Populaire' a major house in Europe. He…this individual wishes you to live to do again such magic! Monsieur…all of Paris knows who made that Opera house what it was. _You_ have been sorely missed by many."

Abrigaun nearly croons,..."you have been sorely missed…" I find myself grimacing, fighting the swell of tears at the thought anyone could miss the egregious Opera Ghost. Bitterly I respond, "And if I demand this... individual's...name before I will cooperate?" My answer comes out in an exaggerated whisper, which is certainly anything but quiet.

Abrigaun's face hardens; he is finished reasoning with the madman. I settle the grey sack coat across my shoulders, unhappy with the fit, but becoming reconciled with the situation. Turning to the scowling Abrigaun, I am ready to cry 'pax' only to find he has backed up one step, prepared to defend himself should I chose to lay hands upon him. He blusters, loudly, "Monsieur, you will make it difficult more than it should be!"

I open my mouth, hold up my hands, ready to swallow pride and make peace...

The door bursts open, and Mademoiselle Butler strides across the room, and laying her hand upon Abrigaun's arm, murmurs, "Be a dear and go check on the coach. I have set the guards to loading it."

Abrigaun flees the room without thought for Mademoiselle Butler's ability to reason with the madman. I cannot help but feel cheated of the opportunity to repair relations with 'Monty'…displeasure compels me to whip about and glare into her benignly calm face, and hiss, "I think you must have been eavesdropping, Mademoiselle Butler."

I receive another of her amused twitches, which fades to that of candid innocence. "Whatever would give you that idea, monsieur?"

Having no answer, I give none, standing bemused as the mademoiselle walks to the desk before the windows, and drags the chair back to the middle of the room. Picking up the comb, brush and Gentlemen's Best Hair Tonic, she points without speaking to the chair and says, "Remove your vest and jacket, Monsieur and....sit."

It is here I make my first serious error in dealing with Aislyne Butler…I slip off the coat and vest, laying both flat upon the bed. And…I sit.

The mademoiselle moves to stand behind the chair where she picks and pulls at my hair. As this is not something I have experienced…much less allowed of anyone, the result is a wave of such unease that I cannot help but jerk away, throwing myself forward in the chair.

Her voice is firm, utterly matter-of-fact, as her hands upon my shoulders pull me firmly against the chair back; "Sit still now, lad, or I'll be clipping your ear."

The words hold no threat, and her hands upon my shoulders are oddly benign. I sit as she requests, unwilling to lose an ear, but unable to stop the waves of shivers that race along my back and shoulders. Repeatedly she pats and strokes my shoulders, my head, saying "There, there, laddie." It should be embarrassing, but is instead…oddly reassuring.

Hanks of hair soon litter the floor about the chair, as the woman deftly wields her scissors. I grow accustomed to the feel of her fingers gently teasing apart the knots and tangles, and each snip of the scissors no longer serves to send fresh alarms along my nerves. She puts the scissors down, and suddenly I am in the throes of sensation overload as she runs her fingers through my hair, from the nap of my neck to my forehead. It proves to be an amazing feeling, raising the hairs upon my neck and arms, while a flush of pleasure the like of which I have never known courses through me from crown to toes. I close my eyes and fight manfully to keep from whimpering surrender to such superior magic. She then uses the comb to part my hair, and begins cutting once again.

I am, by now, completely tamed to her hands. I quickly relax to a point where I am feeling drowsy.

The feeling of her knee slipping between my own shocks me to full wakefulness. Oblivious to the havoc she has again wrecked upon my psyche, she continues to lean ever closer as she works at the front of my hair. I become hyper-aware of her every touch…twice I have need to clear my throat, close my welling eyes, when affected strongly by a particularly eloquent contact.

She lays her hand upon my right cheek, flat against it without hesitation or protest, saying, "I need to trim closely just here. I will place my hand so, and you will not be nicked." I actually felt as if my heart moved to my throat…I kept waiting for her to notice what was beneath her hand…

And then she cups my jaw, and her thumb lands at the right corner of my lips. This does not affect me in quite the same way…no indeed! I find I must begin counting backward from one hundred…in sevens… and breathe deeply to stop from panting like an amorous dog.

Eventually she uses the brush again, and parts my hair so that there is a long wing of hair covering the right side of my scalp and cheek. She trims my scruffy sideburns, spending quite a bit of time eyeing one side and then the other. By the time the woman walks away to put her implements up, I am actually near to swoon, having never experienced so much touching by another person, and in such an intimate manner. It has been both nerve-wracking as well as embarrassing arousing.

I again close my eyes, and concentrate upon Butler's movements about the room. She is…washing her hands? The sound of something being stirred…

A hot towel abruptly wraps about my face, setting my arms to pinwheeling in shock; I gasp and swear in surprise. The blood rushing to my ears deafens me to Butler's abject apology, as her hands clasp mine, to bring them forward and hold me in the chair. I regain my composure, ignominiously still blinded and muffled by the towel. My first impulse is to throw the towel in her face and demand an explanation!

She is already doing so, having stepped behind me, to gently take place her hands along the sides of my jaws; "This will make your beard soft and you won't be as irritated by shaving. Let it sit for a minute more and I'll then shave you." There is both apology and inquiry in her voice. Her hands remain resting in the hollow between my jaw and collarbones; her hands are warm.

I grunt in acquiescence.

Again the stirring sound; the towel is removed and a thick lather of sandalwood scented soap is applied to the both sides of my face, chin, and sideburns. Growling, I say, "You cannot think to shave the right side of my face, Butler!"

"Well, no…but should it not smell as lovely as the left? '_Mademoiselle' _Butler, or 'Miss' if you please."

She reaches to the right side, and works the suds into my sparse sideburn, then wiping off the blade of a wickedly sharp barber's blade, she leans in closely and begins shaving me. The tip of her tongue repeatedly appears at one side of her mouth when she shaves my upper lip, and chin.

I watch her unabashedly; she is so close her breath tickles my jaw. Her eyes are moss green, with gold and silver flecks throughout, and a deep grey-green rim about the iris. That is but the superficial view…deeper within is the feel of…closed doors, a hidden room. I remember well the _something_ that moved in the shadows of those eyes, like a hunting tiger stalking the water's edge…

The skin of her face is as fine as the leather to my finest Italian gloves, and a faint constellation of freckles cover her nose. She has surprisingly youthful, round cheeks, but faint lines fan outside each eye, and though in no way thin and dry, her lips lack the dewy freshness of a woman in first blush of adulthood. There are silver streaks within the coppery-blonde of her hair, undetectable except by close inspection. She has several longer hairs on her chin...

My ear is firmly gripped and she snaps, "Stop staring at me; it is impolite." My ear used as a handle, she imperiously turns my head to the right.

I am thankful she was not watching as closely while trimming my hair. My point of view had been directly at the level of her chest for a time, and the neckline of her gown and chemise fell away from her breasts when she bent over to check the length. I had been transfixed by the sight of her breasts, free of corset yet still as round and tight as those of an adolescent girl. I cannot help a small grin, and a flush of pure adolescent lust at the memory.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Author's Note:**

I fear I have advertised my story as being based upon the movie…but admit, in actuality I've taken literary license to the nose-bleed level. There are those who might think I've rewritten the entire tale, from Erik's birth to…well, to whatever point where this story ends. And I guess that would be accurate, although I have included as much of the original events and history as I can. In other words, I will vaguely travel the same path…just at a different pace, and in different shoes!

I suspect Leroux wrote the "sensationalist's version" deftly excising all that was Erik the man. I chose to write of Erik the man, without forgetting he was also a genius and a wounded self-exile. I will admit to having never read Leroux…something I hope to remedy when I finish this tale.

**Take nothing for granted.** NO, he will not become anything more than he is…and NO, I cannot forget he was, in essence a deeply-flawed personality. Sherri, if you are reading this story that long, you will see how I reconciled all that "have to be loved to love" business. I think I did it reasonably well, with a hefty dose of believability. I'm all about 'what is reasonably believable'.

I am afraid, therefore, you cannot come to this story with any preconceived notions of Erik's past, his age, his looks. He isn't young, by the standards of the times…but he's not an old codger, either. His face will be damaged mostly to one side, but it will be damaged to an extend that couldn't pass as a 'sunburn' as GB's did in the 2004 movie. He has hair…I'm sorry, I couldn't do the whole "tufts here and there" bit, and I do mention that particular description in this story. I hope for you it serves as a 'light' moment between my primary two characters, as I meant it to be.

For questions concerning all of the above…age, looks, and so on…it will ALL be answered in the story, as it develops.

*****************************

**Chapter Twelve**

My father cut the hair on every one of his children, girls and boys, and a fine job he did of it, too. As the owner of a very prestigious horse breeding farm in Cork, Ireland, he knew about good grooming; he kept his horses and his children looking healthy and tidy.

However, there came a time when he felt the seed of his talent surely had to have found fertile ground in one of his children, and so we all 'auditioned' for the part of apprentice barber. Thinking such responsibility would likely mean less of the housekeeping duties, we all fought like tigers to win the job, thinking it to be an easy one.

I, unfortunately, won.

Thereafter, Da directed whilst I practiced the craft on my unfortunate siblings. We were an ill-looking lot for awhile, until my eye and hand both grew steady enough to cut a straight clip and keep from nicking ears and my own fingers. Eventually I did well enough there were no tears or hiding when Da announced that it was time for Derry, Grania, Kenna or Beyvin, Caley, Rogan, Kavenaugh, Quinn or Tiarnan to "get in the chair and let Aislyne cut your damned hair."

The first four names are those of my sisters, the next five my brothers. My mom had a lust for the 'ald' names of her ancestors and researched old books, and performed many peculiar experiments, such as holding a nail on a string over her stomach, as soon as she knew she was increasing. She 'read the stars' also, a term that would have probably meant a neck stretching for witchcraft two hundred years earlier. However, with this information in hand, each Butler was born with a name and at least two important tenets of our character. My name means 'dream' or 'a vision' in the 'ald tongue. My talisman is that of the cat, stealthy and patient. My element is water; my bane is earth, my complement, fire.

Anyway, cutting hair is something I now do for my patients, because so many times handling a person's hair can be a very personal and intimate thing. Who better to do it than somebody you trust (although my siblings would argue...). I was that person for so many, and I finally learned to appreciate my one real skill.

****

Upon first reaching the convent, Abrigaun was arguing with one of de'Chagny's men at the door of the room where our man waited, when I caught up with him after stopping to speak with one of the sisters. 'Speak' is a very loose term here, the sisters having taken a vow of eternal silence. I cannot imagine doing such an unnatural thing.

However, I confirmed with her 'our friend' was resting comfortably. The sisters were under the misinformation that Jerrod Bouchard was suffering from a severe depression that precluded him being left alone. That the men guarding him all possessed firearms could have seemed inconsistent with this explanation, but I suppose we would never know if the good sisters gave this circumstance any thought; they did not _say_. There was no mention of anything regarding his expected execution tomorrow.

The big news these days was the appointment the madman known as the 'Opera Ghost' had with the sharp little number the French likened to a beautiful woman. This person had burned down an entire Opera house about the ears of a standing-room only crowd. Of course, I do not read French, and my listening skills, though they do improve with exposure, are still woefully inadequate for casual French gossip. However, what I could get was this gentleman lived in the 5th basement under the Opera Populaire', and became enraged when his ballet dancer (or was it chorus girl?) took off with someone else. In a fit of pique, he brought down the gas chandelier on the heads of the audience and as a result, the entire building went up like a paper hat in a bonfire. I understood only one person lost their life, and it was not even as a result of the fire, but of the wrath of the Ghost, having strangled the lead tenor in the Opera.

Bouchard was small potatoes compared to this!

This gentleman was sitting before a writing desk, his head turned toward the door upon my entry. I found I wished only to reassure myself he was still the man I remembered from the Rois, that the connection I had felt to him remained.

It was…it did. Just as before, a sense of predestination gripped me, buttressed by one of _knowing_. I could not help but smile upon seeing him…nor could I stop the cheerful greeting, even as I realized it must grate terribly upon his poor nerves. Hoping to deflect the bounding optimism I felt, I pulled my gaze from his, to look toward the window, open wide to the busy street outside.

Two folded letters were neatly laid upon the desk, and I wondered briefly to whom they would be, then thought to myself "One will be to Christine."

Later, as I put a number of coins next to them to pay the sisters to post them, I surreptitiously snooped. Sure enough, one was for 'Le Vicomtess de'Chagny, and the other to Madame Antoniette Giry, Rue de' Scribe, Paris. How I would have loved to read the note to either, or both. I especially wish I could have had time to visit with his foster sister, Madame Giry.

Bouchard was not the happiest of men, and I could not blame him for his nasty greeting. "Indeed we meet again. Did you know it would be under these circumstances?" or something to that affect. No doubt, he thought me a ghoul, who enjoyed spending time with the soon-to-be-headless. The man was then dreadfully improper, although the desperate sadness in his eyes nearly brought me to tears. I could not reassure him…it was Abrigaun's place to inform him of the change of plans, but neither could I keep from giving him the vaguest hint in saying, "I'm not here to prepare you for the guillotine, Monsieur."

His inquiry of my intention to watch whilst he undressed and bathed caught me off-guard; I nearly laughed out loud. He was indeed an unprincipled devil when he wished to be, and I could appreciate his spirit in the face of what must be a hopeless situation for him. And so I answered him in kind, giving as good as he'd given me. He had the grace to turn a bit pink at my answer…I do not think he has conversed with women much lately…but his eyes held a nice sparkle for a second or two, as I believe I amused him.

He must think me a jade, indeed.

I kicked my heels in the outer chamber with three of the de'Chagny men, who were sitting about whispering and stealing ugly looks at me. I believe the best defense is a good offense; I told two of them to immediately go unload our luggage from Abrigaun's landau and stack it before the doorway at the north side of the convent, where our travel coach would soon be, and stay there, ready to load it when the coach arrived. I sent the third to replenish the good sisters' wood in the kitchen, from whence the hot water came. Grumbling, they set off to their respective tasks.

As it was now gloriously quiet, I could clearly hear events as they unfolded in the room Abrigaun and Bouchard occupied.

There was much splashing and then total silence for quite a while. I heard Abrigaun say, "I thought monsieur that you would not be coming back up." There was then conversation regarding our timetable, which was inaudible due to some splashing. The ultimate fate of our friend was disclosed by Abrigaun, culminating in the hasty exit from the bathing tub by Bouchard.

That was unmistakable, and I worked hard not to picture it in my head. I decided it best to let Abrigaun handle things at that time, as Bouchard was assuredly in a lather, and very little else.

Eventually Bouchard's voice became more relaxed and Abrigaun's more hostile, although he was no longer quacking like a duck. I thought of returning my pistol to my bag, but decided to await further developments. Obviously Bouchard was dressing.

It was when the gentlemen reduced their voices to whispers that I became concerned. For what reason would they find to whisper? I rose, stood at the door and heard, "Monsieur, you will make it more difficult than it needs to be," with Abrigaun sounding as if he was under some duress. Time for a rescue. Therefore I whipped open the door with my pistol hidden in my skirt.

Two sets of eyes turned to me with the same expression. Annoyance.

Naturally, I decided to ignore that and made a show of picking up my scissors and so on, stashing the pistol in the leather satchel covertly, and giving Abrigaun a reason to go away. He went, and I went to work on Bouchard's hair.

I am ashamed to say that I had more than a little fun with the poor man, Bouchard. He obviously was as unhandled and head shy as a yearling colt. He shook and trembled every time I so much as touched his head, and I found myself taking my time, cutting his hair as carefully as I could, watching the skin on his neck pebble and relax, pebble and relax. I wished I could have made him roll up his sleeves, just to have a larger area to observe. Eventually, however, I had his hair at the same length all over and had to see how it lay naturally and how we could use it to cover the right side of his face. I ran my fingers from the back of his head up to the front, just to work the nasty Gentlemen's tonic through from the ends. I did not know what to think of the effect that had on Bouchard. I believe he was either purring or growling…

Eventually his hair was exactly as I wanted. It was longer on top, shorter at the back and sides. It was a style two of my brothers favored, and as a bonus, it completely covered the damaged side of his scalp, as well as covered his right brow and a portion of his right cheek if he combed it thus. In no way did I choose to hide all this, but I felt he might be less noticeable at a time when drawing notice was not a good idea.

Oh, yes, his face. I will herein state: I have seen worse. I have for years dealt with people who constantly cut, bit, stabbed, slashed, and generally flayed themselves day after day. I have become dull to the natural horror one feels when faced with a gaping unnatural hole where smooth flesh should be.

Bouchard's right face was...not pretty. Although his ear and the jaw line down to the chin were not affected, it was apparent that something had eaten away aggressively at that one side of his face and head, likely an in utero infection. A great deal of the tissue that eventually covered this was scar tissue, unfortunately, and it gave a very thin, slick appearance to what was basically only deformed bone and very thin muscle. This defect extended up the side of his head and stippled the scalp about an inch above his ear. The side of his nose—the right side—had two gaping holes, one up high to the side of the bridge, nearly adjacent to his eye, and one lower that had distorted the nares on that side. Both appeared well healed, although open to the sinuses. I thought these must be unpleasant during a respiratory illness, and indeed probably caused problems as they allowed in air well past the natural barrier of the nostrils. I wondered if there was some way to close these...

His right eye, itself, was unaffected, but the bottom lid had suffered some insult also in the process of the scarring, and apparently, an adhesion had formed that was pulling his lower eyelid down. I wondered if Doctor Smythe could offer advice on surgical treatment. Eyelids serve very important purposes in closing on the eye. It was apparent that this lid would soon not do its job.

His brow bone and cheekbone on the right side were affected to some extent by whatever had marred the outer skin and underlying muscle. The brow bone was barely there. There was enough of the orbit socket to neatly contain the eye to proper position, but where a nice masculine brow ridge should be there was but a faint forward flare, itself somewhat deformed. He was fortunate that no scarring involved his eyelid to the brow. It minimally affected the forehead on that side, however, until past the point of the temple. The cheekbone had collapsed, and I wondered how this affected his dentition and chewing. The overall effect of the damage was that muscle and normal skin had been peeled from one side of his face from ear to temple down past the cheekbone, and scar tissue was now directly atop deformed bone.

During my frank evaluation of his face, Bouchard had been either arrogantly forward, or miserably ashamed in turns. It was painfully obvious how his face could have affected his character and view of himself. That his mother had treated him as she had, and his face thereafter used as a sideshow horror, did nothing to give him a rational point from which to view himself as a whole. At this time, I was afraid he saw himself as the sum of his facial appearance, and not much more. In my less than learned opinion, Bouchard had most likely suffered emotional debility from his childhood and subsequent years as a sideshow freak. No doubt, there would be some hard lessons for us both ahead.

That is the man whom I would have to learn as much as possible in one short year, in order to help him achieve some sort of separation from his past, and autonomy for his future.

Abrigaun appeared briefly at the open door to tell me the travel coach had arrived and our luggage was being carefully stowed in the rear box and on top. His eyes moved to the bottle of wine left upon the table next to the cot, thereby reminding me I should administer the laudanum now. I nodded and looked at the gentleman who had replaced the angry, resentful creature I had met in the Rois Asylum.

It seemed as if the clothes did make the man or Bouchard was a shape changer. He had gone from standing aggressively defensive and ready for a fight, to the upright, gracefully poised man that stood before the window, hands clasped behind his back. From the left side he was wonderfully attractive, albeit a bit on the thin side. There was an air of restoration to him, as if he was back in himself, instead of just back in decent clothing. Bouchard briefly explored his hair, perhaps a bit put out by the way it hung just a bit over his right cheek and brow. I suppose he was not used to it, and it did tend to call one's fingers to smooth it back in the most alarming manner. I thought to offer him my hand mirror; no convent has mirrors in the private quarters, but he then turned to look at me, hands stilled at his sides. His manner said 'Are we done here?'.

Well, almost.

"There are a few things we need to discuss, Monsieur."

"More surprises in a truly astonishing day, Mademoiselle Butler? I cannot wait to hear what is next." He smiled pleasantly, but his eyes were wary.

"Welcome to a new life, Monsieur." I handed him a wallet containing money, personal calling cards and his travel papers inside. I then offered him the grey wide-brimmed fedora to complete his turnout. No gentleman went without a hat.

The hat went round and round in his long-fingered hands. He brushed imaginary dust off the top and then stuck it artlessly on his head. "I've never been much of a hat wearer."

"Here, allow me, sir." I moved close and settled it a bit to the right, and down in front. Stepping back, I admired the way the soft shape of the hat balanced the strength in his masculine chin and full, well-molded mouth. Too conscious of the pull of his eyes, I concentrated on his clothing, walking about him while he stood, brows lowering and chin rising as I took my time looking him over. He remained silent, yet his hands fisted and relaxed in turns with his terrible unease in being so inspected.

I could not help but declare, with some surprise, "Monsieur Bouchard, you are a very handsome gentleman."

I got nothing but a snort of defensive disbelief in reply, but he seemed to relax just a bit. I walked to the small cot and gave my full attention to putting the grooming tools in the small leather satchel, thereby also slipping my pistol into my pocket and my shawl across my shoulders. Bouchard wandered over closer, making the task just that much harder. I stood, putting my hands in my skirts, and cleared my throat. His eyes met mine, and I schooled my face to reflect nothing, whatever I felt. "There is something that needs to be made abundantly clear between us."

I purposely became abrupt in speech, and kept my eyes firmly on a place somewhere over his left eyebrow. Bouchard was intent on my face, and I felt my ears grow hot. Regardless, I continued, "I am to be your nurse-companion, Monsieur Bouchard. I will keep as close to you as propriety and a common need for privacy will allow. However, I am also your...jailer."

His eyes narrowed and a small twitch to the side of his mouth sent me ambiguous signals. Amused? Troubled? I continued.

"Somebody exercised a prodigious amount of political clout, as well as investing a sinfully grand amount of money to make this happen for you. They are also taking steps to insure you remain…ah…under control. When I was enlisted to provide for your care, I was also given several conditions to meet. One is the requirement to shoot you, dead if necessary, without hesitation should you decide to attempt escape." I felt my eyes slip down to his, to find him still giving no hint as to his thoughts on my words. I felt as if I were speaking to the doorpost.

"Our guards have been given the same _carte blanche_ should they see the need. Obviously, somebody sees you as a potentially dangerous man."

He smiled. Oh, it was a lovely smile, too, but somehow I did not think his thoughts behind it were quite so lovely. At least he was listening; I should be gratified…

"Also, you need to understand that should you attempt to use me to win your freedom, either as a shield or hostage, I have been given to expect no quarter by the guards. I can only assume that means I will be shot, as a dying hostage ceases to serve. I have not met our guards, but I do not see any of them hesitating to do so if it will forego facing their employer's wrath after your successful escape. Your benefactor is that intent on preventing your return to Paris, to possibly embarrass those who bought your freedom."

"Finally, Monsieur, I wish to assure you that I am a crack shot and..." herein I raised my .45 Schofield six-shot revolver from my skirts, cradling it lovingly in my hands, "I am never without this somewhere on my person."

Bouchard's eyes fell on the pistol, and then back to my face. He was smiling again, but it was in no way sweet. I had amused him greatly, obviously!

"I was raised by parents who thought their daughters, as well as sons, should know how to take care of themselves. For that reason, I could ride before I walked, learned how to defend myself from others bigger than me, and became a crack shot, with rifle, pistol and shotgun. I have competed in the local WFA (Women's Firearms Association) trials many times, and our local chapter in Brighton has dozens of awards with my name upon them. I can shoot the pip out of a tossed ace card, and drive a nail from 25 yards with a good rifle. I know how to lead and pick off a moving target. If I do not have time to aim for an innocuous spot, my dear, I will be forced to just kill you."

I gave Bouchard a moment to digest this, and he offered me what I can only think of as a reassuring nod, but remained maddeningly mute. I could not help but wonder, unhappily, what he now thought of me. I finished my rehearsed pitch. "I grew up in a family of twelve, six of which were male. You cannot do anything that I have not seen or had attempted at least twice already, if not by them, then by their ungentlemanly happy-handed friends. I am not an easy woman to scare, intimidate, disgust, outsmart, overpower, or silence. Short of a totally incapacitated condition, there is nothing that will stop me from doing my job, as I was given it to do."

We traded gazes; mine determined and level, his with that dash of amusement under a facade of polite attention. I looked away first. I felt a fool before this quiet, innocuous gentleman. No doubt, he thought me a quiz… Guns and violence, indeed! I was developing the opinion that, except for the small incident with Abrigaun, Bouchard was the most unlikely of men to offer violence to anybody.

The hat was back in his hands, and it was spinning neatly through those long fingered hands. "And are we finished getting acquainted, _Madame_?"

I blinked in surprise. "Monsieur, I can see that you consider this all so much hum, but please understand, you are now my charge, this is my job, and I will do exactly what I was hired to do."

He smiled sweetly, and brought both hands, prayerfully folded, to his lips, his face thoughtful, "Madame, you must then tell me what you have been hired to do. Are you my nurse…or my companion? Or will you be my armed nanny?"

His face was smoothly innocent of mischief, yet I thought to see the devil dancing in his eyes. To be fair, it did seem a bit ridiculous, and I had to throttle my own grin. This was certainly not the time for a lighthearted chuckle, dammit!

"Monsieur, as silly as it all seems, I have done this sort of thing before. I am a care provider for those who are unable to…ah, fend for themselves in the normal world. I care for…

"…Crazy persons. Correct?" The left eyebrow flew up, head tilted in inquiry.

"I have cared for those who were mentally insane, and totally unable to ever care for themselves, also, yes. Tell me, please, Monsieur Bouchard, do you see yourself as never being able to return to living a normal existence? Will you tell me that you have suffered such damage from your…experience with your niece that you cannot ever hope to recover from your wounded…er…sensibilities?"

Bouchard's face lost its warmth, although his lips retained their sweet curve. "Madame Butler, do I act as a man who has been fatally wounded by an affair of the heart? Has my cold blooded murder of Umbaldo Piangi become a crime of passion, performed while under the madness of lust and love?" His voice was so quiet that I nearly did not catch all that he said.

I opened my mouth, but was afraid to admit I did not know what he was asking me, or indeed, who Umbaldo Piangi was.

Voice rising in volume, he continued. "Do you believe that I have suffered only a temporarily derangement brought about through my painful association with the young woman, Christine? That before my…unfortunate attempt at coercing her into being my wife, I lived as other men?"

Bouchard's face was now canted so that the wounded right side was foremost, and I could plainly hear the air sucking furiously through the defects on the right side of his long nose. His right eye was rapidly becoming bloodshot, and his lips curled in anger or disgust, which, I could not tell. In the bright flush of his cheek and the icy glaze of his eyes it was easy to deduce he was becoming quite upset. I moved towards him, in a wish to comfort or quiet him, I do not know. I stepped around the end of the small cot that was between us, my hands palm up before me. "Bouchard, calm down. Now..."

"Woman, would you walk into the reach of death?" Eyes wide and head thrown back, he threw his hands tight about himself, hugging, clutching the fabric of his waistcoat, as if to keep those hands from committing some act of their own volition. "Surely they have not denied you the truth about this…this…DEMON you will now play governess to?"

He looked…horrified. I could hear him panting, and I knew I needed to calm him, instill some reason, as he was rapidly pushing himself into a state. I was terrified Abrigaun or the guards would think we were arguing and come in with guns blazing. I pitched my voice strong, but low, trying to push my way into his consciousness.

"Bouchard, I realize there has been some…editing done in the name of protecting you, or Christine, for whatever reason. I want you to listen to me."

Bouchard was looking definitely queer. He no longer clutched at his coat; but his hands were clenched tightly before him, his chest heaving and eyes screwed tightly shut. The color came and went in his face, one minute his cheek was flushed, the next grey.

"Bouchard. Bouchard!" I nearly yelled. I was preparing to put two fingers to my lips and whistle, but he looked up. His face reminded me of that of a small unhappy boy, disturbed from looking at an interesting bit of flotsam. Mouth open slightly, eyes round as an owl's, he stared at me.

"Bouchard, it matters not what you were fourteen months ago. I am here with you _now_, and we will be traveling to Italy, leaving all of this behind. I DO NOT CARE what happened ten years ago, or even two weeks. Are you listening?"

Something I said seemed to break through, and the man appeared to snap out of his little spell as I watched. His eyes became clear and his face relaxed the tiniest bit. Finally, he spoke, "I am listening." His breathing was still labored, which concerned me.

"Monsieur, I know you would not deny that you have behaved in a somewhat… impulsive fashion in the past. And I can see you become distressed when you think about this behavior. However, it is my frequent experience that we act in ways that work in giving us what we need. If becoming…emotionally volatile…has kept you feeling in control of your life, that would be what you would do. This is a learned response. Do you understand what I am…

"I understand very well, Madame Butler!" His look was one of affront.

I continued, after a steadying breath. "Sometimes, however, a successful coping strategy is not always…shall we say…a well-reasoned one? It is a maladjustment, an overreaction. Where one person might find that carrying a big stick works well at repelling bullies, an over-reactive person might consider complete and total eradication of the bullies the best solution. The first has chosen a position of strength, i.e. armed; the second chooses murder. Yes?"

"What you are saying…" He pressed his hands against his chest, his question unmistakable.

"…that you have not learned proper and reasonable coping skills. I strongly believe that a great deal of "insane" behavior is really non-appropriate coping. You want the cat out of the tree, so…you shoot it. It falls from the tree. Is the cat not now out of the tree? The situation is resolved, but was it a well-reasoned response?"

He looked disgusted, and I laughed in a very self-deprecating manner. "Am I shocking you? I exaggerate merely to make the point, Monsieur..."

"I dare say you are, Madame. So now I am…maladjusted?" He glared at me, unhappy with the subject matter of our discussion. I noted he hated to discuss himself! I ignored his anger, and for once I could bless the fact I was a tall woman. He was wearing his most threatening expression, but I was nearly eye to eye with him. I will admit, however, I have never found it harder to do. He could be very intimidating.

However, not exactly without a bit of the _'smád'_ myself, I lifted my chin, crossed my arms, and gave him my best 'ward matron' stare. I would not back down…

He sighed, "I have no doubt it was nothing but madness that drove me to do the things I have done, Madame. However, I never felt but it was the only course I could take at the time."

I relaxed, and stepping up to him, I lay my hand on his arm. "And so, you have proven my point, Monsieur." I patted his arm gently, then returned to the cot to gather my shawl and satchel. I mostly did it to hide my extreme relief at his returning to a near-calm state so quickly. Bouchard's sudden acquiescence served to strengthen my sanguine estimation of this man's character, and the feeling he was not as 'dark' and lost as he might be. I felt safe in becoming the smallest bit optimistic for Monsieur Jerrod Bouchard. No monster, no madman. Just the matured result of neglect and ill-treatment as a child, and isolation as an adult. I could believe that one year would be enough time for us to resolve his conflicts with life.

I made an important decision, and in the spirit of openness between us, and I shared this decision with Bouchard.

"Our original intent, Monsieur Bouchard was to slip you enough Laudanum in good sweet wine to put you to sleep for most of the carriage trip to Corbeil, our rail connection." I pointed to the chilled bottle of red wine and three glasses upon the table next to the cot. "However, I am asking you if you can give me your word such draconian measures will not be necessary. That you will simply put yourself fully into my custody so we may both proceed with becoming acquainted and comfortable with each other, without resorting to the use of coercion or impairment of faculties. Can you give me your assurance as a gentleman you will do all that I ask of you during our travel and during the term of our…er… relationship?"

The only eyebrow he owned developed altitude and the chin again tilted to the right. He narrowed his eyes and canted his head, saying "So…you are asking me if the Laudanum will be necessary? Or are you asking me if I will be a good little boy, forever? And do you not think that…" he pointed at the general area of the pistol, "will serve as well to…'keep me quiet'? Chin lifted, he sighted down his long, one-half elegant nose.

I had to smile, but I kept my voice level and my eyes on his face. "You have behaved in a peaceful and cooperative manner…with me, anyway, without drug or firearms. Am I wrong to feel that might denote you are willing to leave here with your faculties unimpaired?

His voice rising to an emotional tremolo, Bouchard lay his right hand elegantly upon his breast, and held the other out to me in entreaty.

"Madame, please accept my sincere assurances that I have no interest in either dying in the Concord Place' or of returning to Paris to bother the de'Chagny's. I am quite willing to travel to Italy, or indeed, anywhere that is not France!"

His eyes, those damnable, spellbinding eyes, were on mine, I could no more look elsewhere than pigs fly.

My, but the French are all theater!

As if he could read my mind…or perhaps that slight shade of skepticism was visible on my damnable face? Bouchard dropped both hands to his sides, and pulled his chin low, yet never allowed me one second's respite from his compelling gaze. His voice dropped to that of intimate appeal. "Furthermore, Madame, I do not relish being drugged. Laudanum is a volatile drug at best, and my experience with it has proved it to be…inconsistent…in its effect."

I nodded my understanding, speechless with astonishment, lost in the magic of his voice and eyes. He finally released me by turning his left side to me and fixing his attention on his hands. Thankfully, he did not seem to have one clue of the effect he had on me, as my cheeks grew warm.

"Madame Butler, I have no family or friends upon this earth. I accept your care and governance, and ask only that you respect my wish to remain…apart from the cruelty of those in…very public places."

He gestured gracefully to his face at this last, bringing his eyes back to mine. "You need not drug me to insure my cooperation or good behavior. I freely give you my parole."

Again I had that rush of pleasure. "And I accept it, sir, with the greatest sense of relief." I could not stop my smile from stretching across my silly face. "And Monsieur, I am a 'mademoiselle' not a 'madame'.

Bouchard watched my metamorphosis from plain woman to gleeful troll with a smile of his own, then added, "I am also somewhat adverse to the perforating effect of pistol fire, _Mademoiselle_. I beg you keep this in mind, as I know I will." His look was level, but the devil was back in the corners of his mouth.

Reassured, my face relaxed. "I will keep that firmly in mind. Now, I believe our coach has arrived, Monsieur, and we need to be on our way."


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

Abrigaun was greatly incensed when he realized that Bouchard was narcotic-free; I knew his greatest worry was that Bouchard would escape and return to Paris to harass the de'Chagny's. During a brief whispered conference on the way to the coach, I reassured him I had Bouchard's word he would put himself totally under my authority. As he had acted the gentleman despite all of the queer starts and surprises thrown at him this day, I made the decision not to dose him.

At this, Abrigaun's complexion turned an unflattering shade of puce, whilst he stuttered and snarled of violence visited upon _his _person. Looking at his freshly rearranged cravat, spotless coat and perfectly brushed hair, I had the thought Abrigaun seemed determined to spike our smooth progress at the eleventh hour. I reminded him in a clear voice that a pistol aimed at the chest usually had a grand calming affect on disagreeably troublesome males.

The ambiguity of the statement did not escape Abigaun; he abruptly stopped blathering, with a unsure look in my direction. Bouchard's bark of laughter earned him a bitterly resentful glare from Abrigaun. I started for the coach, and wondered that I was losing control of the situation before I'd had it well in hand.

Two guards escorted us to the waiting travel coach, with another stationed on either side. I boarded first, securing the opposite door, Bouchard sat on my right. When Abrigaun actually joined us in the coach, taking the seat directly across from me, I gave him a questioning glance. "Abrigaun, are you going with us?"

"Would you like that, dear Mademoiselle? I could, you know." His expression was far too earnest for my comfort.

With a quick look at Bouchard, who, arms crossed, stared fixedly out the window, I said, "Surely, you are needed by your...umm...family here?"

Abrigaun gave a moue' of remorse, apparently at my lack of appreciation for his continued attentions. Sighing heavily, he said, "Mademoiselle, I am to accompany you and your…charge to Corbeil wherein I will see you settled in the private cars and on your way."

Having said that, he thumped the roof of the chaise wherein the driver called to his horses to 'Allez, bebe's! We were soon bowling along the fairly smooth road to Corbeil, with little to do but stare out the coach windows. Both gentlemen seemed thoroughly wrapped up in their own thoughts, leaving me little to do but nod along with the sway of the vehicle; I was feeling a trifle worn at the edges. Pulling off my bonnet and gloves, I lay my head back against the plush leather seatback, allowing the rocking of the carriage to carry me into a pleasant…if short lived…nap.

I suppose Abrigaun stood the silence for as long as he could, no doubt weighing his nascent disaffection with Jerrod Bouchard with his full-formed and resolute dislike for peace and quiet. Vaguely I heard his first question filtered through the fog of my own muzzy thoughts.

"So, Bouchard, you are comfortable with the arrangements made for you? Is there anything you feel is important to your…er… comfort in Italy?" Abrigaun gave an ambiguous chuckle here.

"Monsieur Abrigaun, I look forward to leaving Paris, and indeed France, behind me. I do hope there is a piano or such instrument where we go. I feel I need to return to my music as soon as possible."

I was again struck by the beauty of this man's voice. He spoke English like a native. I found that interesting.

Abrigaun's voice became conciliatory in tone. "I cannot insure a piano awaits you, but this, it can be remedied immediately, yes? Are there not Italian-made pianos suitable, Monsieur Bouchard?"

"There are indeed."

Both gentlemen subsided, and I felt Bouchard shift on the bench.

Abrigaun tapped his foot for a few moments, before launching his next conversational maneuver. "And are you…comfortable with Mademoiselle Butler as your companion, Monsieur Bouchard? I realize that you may feel some discomfort when around a female, having as little experience as you have…"

Herein I awoke fully, as Bouchard's voice changed from that lovely warm timbre to something that immediately struck warning bells throughout my consciousness.

"My contact and experience with females is not any of your business, Monsieur, nor do you have _any idea_ of what I have and have not!"

I lifted my head from the soft corner of the bench, to find Bouchard glaring at Abrigaun. Noticing I had 'joined' the conversation, Bouchard shot narrowed eyes to me, his face shifting into a condescending sneer. He now spoke with a smooth nastiness that was all for my benefit. "However, since you have inquired, I must say that I feel _Mademoiselle_ Butler is a very poor choice of 'companion'. Is this de'Chagny's revenge for my temerity in loving Christine? A dry, skinny spinster with the personality of a prison matron? Why, the woman is old enough to be your mother, Abrigaun!"

If I was to be shocked, he would have to do much better than that. I noted his body posture and facial expression. He had quite obviously put his right side to the fore, and his eyes were frigid. They were a lovely pale green, large and well-formed with thick dark lashes above and below. I was amazed at how they could shift colors with his moods. I noted I was seeing again the man in the cell: the wolfish grin, and ersatz urbanity that so thinly covered his intense antagonism.

Abrigaun, however, was not much impressed with Bouchard's eye color. He had decided to take complete umbrage at the slurs offered me. Wide-eyed and apparently silenced by such outrageous speech, Abrigaun was doing his best to stand up in a coach that was less than 5 feet from floor to ceiling. I firmly pushed him back into his seat and told him in a no-nonsense manner, "Abrigaun, do not let this man affect your good nature. He is trying to upset me, and he will not get it done with names and insults."

Abrigaun sat, but his expression was anything but conciliatory. "Mayhap my steel though his liver would recall proper manners toward a lady for him…" he shouted in my closest ear.

"No, no, Abrigaun. You may not call him out; he has no sword, nor do I wish you to fight with him." I looked at Bouchard, who appeared quite amenable to a duel. In his present poor condition I cannot see how he thought he would prevail, much less survive! Then again, perhaps he did not particularly care.

Abrigaun mopped at his face with his handkerchief. "Mademoiselle, I fear that you will find he does this always…attacks without the warning or reason! I am expecting him to…to bite!"

Bouchard snorted and nodded his head, flashing his teeth.

I patted Abrigaun's hand. "Monty, I do not believe Bouchard bites. Growls loudly and snaps his jaws noisily, perhaps..." I did not lower my voice, and gave Bouchard a repressing look as I said it.

His eyebrow and lips twitched, but he shut his eyes, and once again, the voice of civility, he spoke. "Mademoiselle Butler, I suggest that you go home and get yourself married, like a good girl. Let Abrigaun's 'Patron' find another demon such as myself to which to leg shackle me. I can offer you nothing but a great deal of unhappiness."

He dropped his head back against the squabs, as if fatigued by the entire prospect.

I turned and faced him as squarely as I could, considering we both shared the same bench. "Monsieur Bouchard, do not think your graceless comments on my physical, chronological and…ah… marital status are going to change anything. You are _my responsibility_ and the sole benefactor of _all _my attention for the next twelve months. The sooner you allow that to become gospel in your mind, the better those months will go. I am not asking you to entertain me, Monsieur, nor will I entertain you, whatever you might think." I felt my cheeks grow pink at that, especially as Bouchard chose to turn and slowly wink at me.

Firming my chin and gritting my teeth in the face of his smirk, I growled, "And yes, 'prison matron' will do very well, if you so wish to describe me."

Bouchard's eyes were positively alight with glee.

Abrigaun leveled a hard look at Bouchard, "Remind yourself, Bouchard, of what Mademoiselle Butler's duties are. You will treat her at all times with respect and gentlemanly comportment, or I promise you, I will..."

"I understand completely, Monty. I will keep my grubby hands off the woman and refrain from being…disagreeably troublesome. I have no wish to have a bullet sent through my lung."

I shoved my bottom inelegantly back into the seat. "Hush, both of you. I do not like this talk of anybody... shooting anybody. Monty, I am sure Monsieur Bouchard understands perfectly well..."

Abrigaun hissed angrily, "I do not like his comment on your…age." The man still looked ready to thrash Bouchard. I grasped Abrigaun's fisted hand and patted it.

"I have heard nothing particularly insulting, Monty. And although I am possibly a bit long in the tooth, I do not believe I was so precocious a child that I could be your mother."

Abrigaun's eyes swept to mine and he visibly gulped. "My sweet Mademoiselle Aislyne!" (He pronounced my name Ahhzzz-ZLEEN), "The man's eyes…they suffer _la vision d__éformation_reflected in his mind. You are but a lovely woman in the very flower of womanhood, an ageless beauty, graceful and…"

"Oh, Monty…Abrigaun!…_please_!" Sick with embarrassment at the man's overdone flattery, I silently cursed his philandering sense of timing. Had he no shame?

Giving a rude snort, Jerrod Bouchard drawled, "I hope you two will not be making love all the way to Corbeil. I will have to crawl out the window to the top of the coach. Moreover, I find him to be highly duplicitous. 'Gentlemanly comportment' _my arse_…"

Abrigaun kept to his side of the coach after I violently blocked him from attacking Bouchard, shoving him gracelessly back into the seat and shaking a threatening finger in his face. Bouchard returned to his study of passing scenery; his expression dark.

I was feeling as if I had just been tipped on end. I realized that no matter how much I tried, or thought I understood him, Jerrod Bouchard was never going to make it easy to do so.

**********  
Men, being men, argue and fuss, especially when there is someone present to watch. 30 minutes later, they are drinking from the same bottle, and sharing dirty jokes, the absolute best of cronies.

Obviously, that would not be happening here. Bouchard was brooding, looking out the window at the passing countryside. Abrigaun was glaring at his boots.

Moreover, I felt that having nothing to say to each other was a good thing between these two. I again set my head into the fat, overstuffed curve at the corner of the seat, and after requesting to the general area I be allowed to nap without distraction, I proceeded to do just that.

Abrigaun was again left with Jerrod Bouchard as his only conversational gambit. With my defection, he was at point non-plus, and no doubt the silence was galling. Opening with a general statement on the fine weather despite the fact that it was merely March, I dozed fitfully to the drone of calm male voices. Weather led to politics. I slipped into a catnap.

Just because I was napping did not mean I was not, on some level, listening, however. And although I was desultory in paying any real attention at first, especially as they chose to speak French this time, words began to engage my attention. I snapped to wakefulness upon registering this: "Monsieur Bouchard, I have great respect for your work. I have visited the…er…mumbleplace where you were formerly mumbleblah, and it has hmmmmm declined since your incarceration, despite its blah-mumble and new managers.

"Thank you, Monsieur Abrigaun, for your…kind words. Few people understood the part I played in the running of the theater, nor the mmm-umbleblah mumbleblah and direction I provided. I might ask how it is you know of my… mumblemumble blah?"

I worked very hard to keep my breathing 'normal' for a napping person, but my cow-like ears were probably quivering in a highly noticeable manner with the effort to hear and understand.

Abrigaun adopted a low, near whisper, making it just that much harder to comprehend his rapid French. "I have been a blah of the arts for many years, Monsieur. I was actually present mumble-blah mumble-blah for the…ah…mumble-blah in November two years past."

Abrigaun chuckled in that totally asinine fashion men use when they are discussing things they consider are best 'kept from the ladies.' "Monsieur, I cannot express properly the thrill the…er…your performance of the...mumblemumble-blah gave the young lady I was escorting. She was quite affected, if you catch my meaning. Eh?"

Abrigaun chortled again, and I nearly snorted in derision. My curiosity, however, was in a hard, lathered gallop now!

Bouchard merely grunted. There was silence for a few moments, and I wondered if Bouchard had given Abriguan one of his Sphinx-like stares...the atmosphere had acquired a frigid feel to it. No doubt Abrigaun in his effort to engage Bouchard in happy discussion had instead brought up a sore point from the past. I stored what I could understand of that conversation away for intense rumination later.

Whatever Bouchard's demeanor, Abrigaun was not to stay suppressed for long. Three-finger drumming could be heard, as if on the top of a stiff stovepipe hat, which fashion-conscious Abrigaun wore. His Italian boots began a soft tattoo upon the floor. I heard him shift in the squabs, as if positioning himself for another assault. When he finally spoke, his tone was of a serious, one might say, lecturing tone.

"I hope you understand the…hmm…mm…mumble effort undertaken to mm…mumble harm's way. I ask that you give all due blahhhh...mumble mm…mumble that my... eh...patron has given you. Of course, we will speak no more of this before the… um…_ah-hem_."

Now, that was interesting…I wondered if I was the 'um…_ah-hem_'? Bouchard's answer was neutrally respectful. I was impressed by his restraint in the face of Abrigaun's condescension.

"I am very appreciative of mumble mumble mummumble blahblah to me by your patron. Please mummumble gratitude to him, or her, as the case may be."

There was a beat of silence, then Bouchard added, "Perhaps you can now be mummumble me know mummumble mumble is, now that we are safely mumble to Italy?"

Did I hear the tiniest hint of threat?

There was vast silence, with neither gentleman moving. I could feel the tension, and Bouchard's breathing was becoming louder by the moment. Recent history told me this meant he was becoming upset.

Abrigaun's lack of response was extraordinary enough that I decided to interrupt before hostilities again ensued.

Yawning widely, I stretched my arms carelessly to the sides, thumping Bouchard soundly on the shoulder with my right fist, and jamming my left hand into the carriage door. I gasped in pain and rocked back into the squabs, breathing several less than ladylike words, the worst of the lot in Gaelic, thank Heaven, (and thank you Granny, you evil besom'!)

I should explain…I meant to 'nudge' Bouchard, not pound him in the arm, and ditto putting my fist nearly through the coach door. However, as a man once said, "These things do happen…"

And it was most effective in defusing the situation between my fellow travelers.

To my immediate shock and embarrassment, Bouchard murmured "Ugly words from sweet lips, Madame." In Gaelic…and laughed softly, doubtless at the stupidly stunned look on my face. Every part of my body grew hot and I felt my brain and mouth disassociate. Helplessly I heard myself say, in the 'ald tongue, "You understood what I said? Oh, *#*&!"

Bouchard started to laugh louder, this time covering his face with one hand, and wrapping the other about his chest. I could see that he was struggling to contain himself, and my glare in his general direction had the delightful result of sending him off, beyond his control. I was overcome with the sight of Bouchard in the grips of genuine hilarity and his deep, musical belly-laugh filled the carriage. I started giggling, only to slip into the vastly unladylike, facially-contorting bray that passes for laughter in the Butler female.

Abrigaun stared at us both as if we were insane. He then gave a shout of consternation, pointing at my still smarting hand, "Mademoiselle Butler! You are bleeding!"

Mid-cackle I pulled my gaze away from Bouchard, to find that, yes indeed, I was bleeding. I had caught myself on something sharp in my contact with the door; the result was blood streaming steadily down my arm inside my sleeve, and dripping off my elbow. I nearly cursed again, but made do with "Oh, nooooo" in regret for my lovely dress. Blood was so very difficult to remove from printed cotton fabric! A pool of blood occupied my lap, no doubt soaking my new underskirts and chemise. I pulled my sleeve up my arm, and Bouchard bent towards me to look as I turned my arm to inspect the wound. A deep, jagged cut began amid the fleshy heel of my left palm and continued another three inches up and across the center of my wrist.

Abrigaun was digging furiously through his pockets seeking a handkerchief, his eyes squeezed shut, panting like a hard-run foxhound. He now occupied the back half of the bench, having all but retracted his legs into his body to avoid the dripping blood.

The wound was gaping and the blood seemed to well up and run down my arm with frightening volume. I sucked in my breath hard as all the visual cues finally yelled to my brain 'This hurts!' "Ehhhhhhooowwwwww!"

In less time than it takes to tell, Bouchard rose from the seat and turned, grabbed my bleeding arm, spun me about face, and yanked me across the coach to fall onto the opposite seat with him. A large, white handkerchief appeared in his hand, and was swiftly wrapped neatly and snuggly about my left hand and wrist. He then placed my hand, palm down, upon his thin, hard thigh and leaned firmly upon it.

"Madame, am I hurting you?" His face turned to me, and I realized that I was sitting to his ravaged right side.

I kept my eyes firmly upon his, "Monsieur, it hurts, naturally. I cannot say that you have affected it one way or another." His attention returned to my hand.

Abrigaun, now sitting next to me, had shoved himself to the very corner of the bench. I smiled reassuringly at him and was rewarded with a tentative pat on the (right) arm. "Mademoiselle, I so am sorry for my behavior, of such cowardice. Blood, it is the blood, I cannot…." He faded sadly at this point, having noticed the long steak going down the front of my walking dress, culminating into an impressive pool of it on the floor of the coach. He moved to the opposite bench, gingerly avoiding the blood on the floor and thoroughly wiping down the door and leather seat with his own handkerchief.

Bouchard spoke grimly, "Blood is naught but salts, iron, and oxygen in a liquid medium. Your fear and revulsion is irrational in the fact that you have nearly 10 pints of the stuff rushing through your veins, _Monty_." Bouchard looked sideways at Abrigaun, and gritted his teeth, saying softly, "Or not…"

Abrigaun did not even bother to look insulted. He sank to the back corner of the opposite bench. I angrily hushed Bouchard, "That was not necessary. There are many who suffer such at the sight of blood, and you do n…."

"Madame, you have done enough refereeing this day. Please quiet yourself or you will undo my good work, and the bleeding will resume."

I subsided immediately.

Beyond the faint sounds Bouchard made during his examinations, no one spoke. I found myself looking into Bouchard's face, while he fussed with the bloody lace on my sleeve, and periodically checked the pulse in my fingers, and rate of my bleeding. Several times he slid his eyes over to meet mine, and I found myself blankly staring into them. I was aware of no pain, but shock had obviously set in as my heart was racing and I had to consciously rate my breathing to avert hyperventilation. This took all of my attention.

Finally, Bouchard eased up on the pressure, and gently pulled the handkerchief away from the gaping wound, which immediately began seeping again, but certainly not as before. His touch was gentle, his inspection knowledgeable. "You need this stitched, Mademoiselle. This is a very deep, long cut, and you may have nicked the ulnar artery."

I looked down at the insulted appendage and had to agree. The fat layer down to the pale fascia over the muscle gaped widely on my palm, and the wound was nearly three inches end to end. I then noticed I had bled on Bouchard's fine grey trousers. His hands were similarly bloodstained. Things began to go a bit spotty, and I fought it off by breathing deeply and calmly.

Aware of two sets of eyes fixed unblinking upon my face, I smiled at both gentlemen reassuringly. "Monsieur Bouchard, I think the stitching can wait until we arrive in Orly, later this evening. I am more worried about the threat of infection! Hopefully there will be suitable care available somewhere there. If nothing else serves, I can do the job myself."

Abrigaun spoke with a note of abject horror in his voice, "And you would do so? Mademoiselle! I am shocked that you are not overcome now as it is!

I smiled at Abrigaun, "Monsieur, I have frequently had to close wounds on my patients, and so I have no fear of needles. However, I will admit I do not relish the idea."

To be totally truthful, I am afraid the thought of it made the bright dancing spots return to before my eyes….

Bouchard pushed me firmly back against the squabs with his free hand, bloody as it was. "You have bled heavily, Madame, and it is important you do not overtax yourself. We will locate somebody to do this in Orly. If not, perhaps we can send one of the mounted men ahead to Corbeil to have a doctor waiting."

His voice was clipped and he looked most uncomfortable with me. "I beg you put your head back. I will keep pressure on the wound."

No doubt he thought me nothing but troublesome. "I am not an invalid, Monsieur! I can manage to hold it thus myself. Besides, you cannot think to hold my hand all the way to Corbeil, surely!" I was beginning to feel woozy again, however, and no doubt my tremulous grin and shaky right hand did not escape Bouchard's notice. He summarily wrapped his right arm about my shoulders and pulled me against him, then firmly tipped my head down. "Now, shut your eyes, and your mouth, Butler. You are turning an unflattering gray color, am I not right, _Monty_?"

My last conscious vision was of Abrigaun's look of dull resentment.

***********

I have adopted a mantra for those moments when I am near overcome with anger, frustration, or humiliation: "The Opera Ghost is dead; I am a man and I live! The Phantom is dead; I am a man and I live!" Perhaps that sounds trite, but it recalls for me the epiphany I experienced while locked on Ward Four of the Rois, having received my Order of Execution.

The Phantom is truly dead. Some hapless thug faces execution tomorrow morning, bearing the sobriquet as well as sins of Erik De'Carpentier, former ghost-in-residence of the Opera Populaire, the Phantom of the Opera...

I, Jerrod James Bouchard, the man, have survived. At the tender age of 44 years I am born again, as this hideously ill-favored but newly-fashioned man who is now under the guardianship of one Aislyne Mharie Butler, Governess, Nurse Companion, and Spinster.

I received my first 'lesson' today, directly from the stern rosy lips of My Lady Butler, i.e., I am not mad, crazy, insane, a twisted monster. No…I am 'maladjusted.'

I scoffed. What nonsense is this? Are my 'coping skills' to be compared to the set screw on a gaslight, or the focus wheel for a microscope? Have I to be but…recalibrated to rejoin the living? I strongly resisted the desire to advise Madam Butler that indeed, I believed HER set screw had worked a bit loose while racketing across France with de'Chagny and his idiot lawyer!

I refrained, however. And I find in her explanation a kernel of sense. For it is God's own truth I have learned little of the ways of Civilized Man. My teachers and role models to date have been a hateful mother, the brutal Gypsies, a murderously ambitious and doubtless mad Persian ruler…and the world of the Paris Opera. For many years, the only 'society' I have experienced is that of the actors on the opera stage, with their elitist nobility, old-school manners and amoral ways, both on and off the stage.

As it stands now, I have much to learn on being a member of my own species. And I must reaffirm that I do, indeed want a life beyond the grave I occupied beneath the Paris Opera.

As long as that life will include my music. I care, now, for _nothing_ _else._

Although…I would know who has taken the trouble to save me from death, perhaps to thank them. More likely, I would demand why this innocent woman is sacrificed, thrown into the company of a suspected killer and madman, given responsibility for _my welfare_! She knows naught of the Paris opera I once 'terrorized' as the Opera Ghost, as the Phantom. She knows nothing of my violent behavior and uncontrollable anger!

I become angry again when I think of what de'Chagny has now done. Sending a woman, albeit an outright novelty of a woman…to play governess to a man who at one time executed innocent and guilty alike by the dozens, at the pleasure of the Shah of Persia!

I want my hands around the neck of de'Chagny, his weasel lawyer, and the mastermind that bankrolled this entire charade'…by God, I especially want him. Fools!

I realize my heated thoughts have turned my gaze upon said 'weasel lawyer', who presently sags upon the bench, snoring softly. I could snap his neck so neatly he would never wake up…

…Butler's head abandons my arm again to lean against the bench back. I do not replace her head upon my shoulder this time; she is feeling very unhappy with herself at the moment, and does not like the idea of being thought 'weak'. Her transparency is amazing…it is as if she whispers her very thoughts into my ear. However, she refrains from looking at me now, and that is best.

Her eyes…for a time I found I could not avoid them nor ignore the near-forgotten obsession they pulled from the very depths of my wasted soul. I had needed to grit my teeth and fight it, reminding myself her behavior was caused by shock, stress…not her weakening life force.

When I check upon her wound once again, she stares at my hands for a time, sucking her breath in upon my rewrapping her arm with a clean handkerchief. I look at her, helpless not to do so, and she returns my gaze and smiles. "I do not know how to thank you…I would have been helpless without you here…" There is that within those eyes that proves the opposite.

Looking into her eyes, I realize I am the helpless one. I nod curtly and look out the window.

It is exactly as Butler stated: I am who I am _now_. I declare once more within my thoughts, "The Phantom is dead; I am a man and I live! I am a man…"

**************

Four horses drew our chaise and we made good time to the first road inn at Orly, where we were to break our daylong fast and switch horses. The coaching inn was called the "Dancing Bull" and seemed to hold all the charms of a cow byre, indeed. It smelled, there were flies, and I would not have been surprised at all to have found cattle stabled in the kitchen.

Our inquiries for a doctor or surgeon were met with blank stares. Finally, an old farmer clued us to the fact that in these rural areas there was usually a woman who took care of such things, for human and animal, as needed. An enterprising youth was tipped to fetch the local version to the inn while we were served our evening meal. My wounded arm was throbbing steadily now, and I was becoming terrified of the thought of a bewhiskered, dirty, lice-ridden 'cailleach (old woman) wielding a rusty needle upon my flesh. I went back out to the coach and fetched my medical case.

Hungry as I was, it was not enough to eat much of the positively evil food from the kitchen of the Dancing Bull. In our private salon, I picked at my meal of unidentifiable baked poultry, punitively cooked vegetables and dry potato. The bread was edible if slathered with enough of the butter; there was just not enough butter, or bread, for that matter. Monsieur Bouchard ate with neat, polite enthusiasm, and I nearly offered him my plateful after I had visually inspected and rejected the contents. Abrigaun sat at the far end of the table and ignored us both, in an obvious snit.

I moved to a quiet parlor at the back of the inn to await the 'doctor', my medical case between my feet, earnestly repeating to myself that I would not run for the safety of the coach. A few minutes later Bouchard appeared in the doorway. At my inquiring look, he sighed heavily, saying, "I thought you might wish to have a hand to squeeze while you are…doctored. And, naturally, the woman will speak only French…"

I smiled my gratitude of such manly consideration, only to hear "Abrigaun cannot bring himself to do it…obviously." Bouchard then sat next to me and we waited in silence until the innkeeper's wife brought the woman in to see to me.

She immediately identified herself, "Je suis Bete Grosse'", and started asking me many questions, seemingly uninterested in merely looking at the wound. I opened my mouth, thinking to tell her "Je ne parle aucun francais " when she reached to inspect my hand, and pulling it back, I asked her, in very simple French, "Vous êtes-vous lavé les mains?"

She looked at me for a long moment, then began to complain in the rapid fire French that I would probably never understand, throwing her hands up in the air. I had a good idea of what she was saying, having run into the Medical Establishment's knee-jerk distain for the precepts of Joseph Lister. I calmly told her, in childishly styled French, that I wished her to thoroughly wash her hands, to cleanse the wound with boiled cool water and then dilute isopropyl alcohol, and to use my own carefully boiled instruments, thread and needles. She hissed, snapped her fingers at me, and turned to leave.

Bouchard intervened, gently capturing the woman's arm, then her ear, speaking calmly in his deepest and most honeyed voice. After a few moments of back and forth with her, Bouchard told her, "For me, please humor this silly woman. She has a fear of tiny beasts that might be living on your hands, and the thread and needle. You will be paid handsomely, and I will be forever in your debt."

At the finish of his earnest request, his hand was upon his breast. His left side was to her, and he all but batted his long lashes...

The woman washed her hands vigorously, and further agreed to help me thoroughly cleanse my wound, an experience I do not wish ever to repeat. The washing out of the wound was bad enough, water boiled yes; cooled, not near enough. Bouchard assisted with the application of the dilute alcohol and boiled water mixture I use for wound cleaning and irrigation, and I could no more stop from bawling like a baby than I could cursing roundly in English and Gaelic.

Madame Grosse' also agreed to use my own kit of boiled scissors, silk thread and needles, admiring the way they were pre-threaded and wrapped into sets in boiled linen wraps. Bouchard held my right hand throughout, although it seemed he did more squeezing than I did…

It was a painful experience, but I openly admired Madame's stitching, and complemented her on her technique in the middle of the ordeal. Added with the healthy amount of francs I pressed into her hands, she was well pleased, and left with a wide, satisfied smile.

I promptly staggered outside through a side door and was helplessly sick, losing what little supper I had been able to swallow. Bouchard was kind enough to stand at the door, keeping an ear upon me, without pressing unwelcome assistance while I was so indisposed. He handed me a wet cloth and a near-full glass of stout brandy upon my return. I washed my face, rinsed my mouth out with and drank the brandy while Bouchard capably finished my wound care by applying the carbolated cream to the wound to speed healing and keep the pressure pad from sticking. A clean bandage and wrapper from my kit… pinned to keep everything tight, and I was done and done in. I thanked him effusively for aiding me during the ordeal, becoming tearful with gratitude. I received his 'Sphinx Bouchard' look.

He fetched my cloak, and we joined Abrigaun and both our guards before the inn, where the coach with fresh horses awaited us. We had approximately 13 kilometers yet to travel to Corbeil, and would be traveling through the night. My little ordeal had put us over an hour behind schedule.

***************************

Once the brandy wore off, I awoke to find that the sway of travel had the desired effect on the men; they went to sleep. The coach, although roomy, had only two heavily upholstered benches. Abrigaun having secured one bench for himself, was comfortably stretched out. Poor Bouchard could only lean his head against the padded wall and put his legs out along the floor, because of me. Presently, he was sound asleep, and slipping steadily down the wall, and would soon to end up on the floor. Scooting towards him just a bit, I picked up his booted feet and lay his legs across my lap, although as tall as he was, it would be a close fit. He never woke, just slid down the wall, settled his head in the corner and hid the right side of his face. Even in sleep, he hid his face.

I caught the occasional nap as we traveled through the night, but found myself wakeful for much of the journey. To occupy my mind, I watched Bouchard in the pale light from the lantern swaying from the ceiling over our heads. It is amazing how all men most resemble little boys when they sleep; faces soften, mouths become loose and vulnerable. And noises issue from them that are not altogether charming. Abrigaun kept snoring in a window-rattling fashion. I kicked his boot every time he started, and he would be silent for at least 5 minutes. No wonder his wife was not bereft without him home.

Bouchard, however, slept quietly, or if he were face up, faintly 'purred' from the highest nasal defect, something for which I fought the impulse to find 'endearing'. Squashed up against the corner of the seatback and bottom, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, he was eerily silent. Every once in a while his legs would quiver and I'd find myself holding them so I would not receive more bruises across the front of my hipbones from where he had knocked me. For a man his size, his legs were incredibly bony; his shinbones knifelike, and he had no calf muscles I could discern. I was regretting my good intentions seriously after the third hard rap against my left hip.

Yes, of course, I know it was unseemly for me to have the gentleman's legs across my lap! I would have gladly pulled his boots and rubbed his feet, if he had so requested. We had just spent an amazing day together, we two, and I was feeling more than a little in charity with the man. I settled my travel quilt across my body and over his legs, stretching it up over him until it was just below his chin. He seemed to relax more in sleep when so covered.

Would Abrigaun not be shocked if he saw this!

The question I asked myself: How sorry would I be for having taken this scandalous assignment two weeks from now?"

Bound for heretofore unknown territory, I was far from everything I held dear, and totally outside my experience. The weakness I had succumbed to upon injuring myself had put Bouchard in the position of being in charge, and I was shocked to realize I had relinquished it gladly. Bouchard could have taken advantage of the situation in so many ways, and yet…he had not.

Bouchard himself had proven to be an arbitrary and confusing personality, and it was not surprising to realize he could also be very manipulative. Abrigaun suffers from a surfeit of good humor and even temper, yet Bouchard pushed him to the edge in seconds, using me ruthlessly to do so…

And then there was Bouchard's actions and reactions toward me, his 'armed nanny' and 'prison matron'. One minute he appeased me with his warm, heartfelt deference, and the next he was snarling invective and insults to my face. I would need to keep on my toes, emotionally speaking, around this man.

I would be forever in his debt for his deft handling of the dry, skinny spinster's bloody run-in with the carriage door, and all that followed. I have no doubt that without his intervention, Dame Grosse' would have walked out and left me to suffer, little beasties and all.

I could insist it was compassion that compelled him to help me, yet what sensitivity would lead him to offer his hand for pain, yet allow me face-saving solitude while I lost my dinner? And afterwards to offer a wet cloth and a generous glass of good strong brandy. A rare, thoughtful gentleman, Jerrod Bouchard.

But... I will admit to becoming a trifle self-conscious since his 'dry, skinny spinster' remark. Somehow 'dry' caught me off-guard. Skinny was a bit harsh, also. Naturally, I feel confident that I know exactly where all this originated, knowing his spiteful words were to repel me, to send me away, to murder the nascent relationship between us, as much as provoke Abrigaun.

I am too familiar with the process, because that is what we do, he and I; we keep everybody outside the point of any real intimacy by whatever means necessary.

The thing that had compelled me to take the assignment…not the money, travel, or even the compassion for a young couple bedeviled by a past entanglement...is still there. And several times today I looked into Jerrod Bouchard's eyes to find it remains: the darkness, the 'jeh raie' (dark child); the heart sickness and dying hope of a lost soul.

I wonder if he knows his eyes hold all the sadness of the world?


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen  
**  
We reached Corbeil as the sun cleared the horizon. At least, I believe it was the sun, not being sure in the murk and fog. Corbeil's claim to fame was that of grain mills, and the smell was unmistakable. Nothing as pleasant as baking bread on a grand scale, either. The smell was vile; a burnt, acrid odor that hung about in one's nose hours after.

Fortunately, the train station was generally upwind of the greatest number of mills; we would have been rendered dusty white phantoms by the time we were boarded and moving, otherwise. Flying chaff and grain dust seemed dangerously thick in the atmosphere over the countryside, and I wondered if it had ever flash ignited. No doubt that was why the actual town of Corbeil was well to the east of the mills and rail station.

It was cold, grey, and everything had that brittle quality to it that spoke of winter mornings after wakeful winter nights. It was a mixed blessing to have no wind, as it would have cleared the haze, but surely frozen us solid before we had the shelter of the private cars. As we waited for the two Pullmans and matching cargo car to be moved off the storage siding and attached to the Corbeil-to-INR line, we developed faint highlights of white on our coats and hair. I noticed with amusement that Monsieur Bouchard was upset because of the dust collecting on his lovely fedora.

Abrigaun was with the load master, going over paperwork, gesturing wildly and shaking his head. The load master looked terrified.

It was also apparent that the dust in the air was affecting Bouchard's breathing; as I said, he has no natural protection from contaminated air, and there was a surfeit of that this morning. He coughed with greater frequency as time passed; ever the worrier, I moved closer yet stayed as unobtrusive as I could. Bouchard's demeanor this morning was "Leave me alone," a sentiment I understood and shared. I noted when coughing had progressed to wheezing and then choking, and decided that I needed to do something.

Waiting until he was engaged in a particularly racked coughing fit, I walked over to him, handed him a clean hanky, and abjured him to cover his nose. His look was fierce; I did not stay to hear him tell me to go to the devil. He did, however, utilize the hanky to cover his nose for great periods of time, if not constantly, as I meant it to be used.

An hour later, we were still waiting and I was dead on my feet, having walked back and forth, from our coach to the platform at least three dozen times to keep the blood moving. I began to hallucinate; I was actually seeing the Vicomte de'Chagny several platforms away, making beckoning motions to me.

Bemused, I swayed on my feet, and felt a steadying arm at my shoulder, and warmth at my back. Bouchard's thrilling baritone purred into my ear, "I think you had best let him come to you, Madame. Your long night has caught up with you." He led me to a sheltered bench some little distance from the siding and by way of a firm tug seated me amid a 'pouf' of flour dust. Giving an elegant bow, he prettily doffed his hat, made a summoning motion involving chin and arm towards de'Chagny, and went off towards the siding, where he finally reemployed the hanky over his nose.

After brief hesitation, de'Chagny did come, striding quickly from platform to platform. Upon reaching me, he touched the brim of his hat, though he slanted his eyes Bouchard-ward, lips forming a question, the gist of which I can well imagine. Instead he did a doubletake, exclaiming, "Mademoiselle! There is blood all down your dress, and your arm… "

"Why yes, Monsieur, there is, indeed. And no, Bouchard is not involved!" The Vicomte's face reflecting his combative train of thought, I derailed it firmly. "The coach door and I had a tussle and now I have new embellishments upon my arm. Twenty-two stitches." My smile was all teeth, sub-audibly chattering with fatigue.

De'Chagny sat next to me, and we watched Jerrod Bouchard ease his way into the crowd that surrounded the train. Bouchard's progress was observable, as the man himself easily topped every other man by at least a hand (four inches). His hat, rakishly set to the right, bobbed above the top hats, caps, and one ladies' bonnet. Obviously I would be meeting several new members to our party, including two uniformed guards…in brilliant red and black…French National Guard.

I turned to survey the young man to my left, who, upon closer inspection, appeared every bit as ragged at the edges as I. He had apparently been standing outside for a while, as the shoulders of his heavy wool coat sported a thick layer of white, as did the fur cap atop his shoulder-length hair. A light dusting covered his long patrician nose and cheeks.

His smile, however, was cheerful, "Then you will be glad to relinquish coach travel, Mademoiselle. Although I cannot be sure but that you may next choose to take up wrestling with the railcar door." He grinned, but raised my wounded arm and patted my hand. "I'm sorry for this. No doubt you are ruing this entire expedition."

"Actually, Monsieur, it was not a total disaster. Bouchard and Abrigaun are nearly as… entertaining…as you and Abrigaun were whilst we crossed western France."

De'Chagny's look was full of questions, so I smiled, and continued. "No duels were fought, though many were threatened. Our Abrigaun had his mettle tested… frequently!…by Bouchard, but it was the sight of blood that unmanned him completely. It was, therefore, Bouchard who held my hand for two hours, which raised Abrigaun's hackles terribly."

I looked at the Vicomte and found I had flummoxed him completely. "I am thankful that neither were armed, as there would have been but one leaving the coach upright at Orly!"

"Good Heavens, Mademoiselle. I had no idea Abrigaun felt such hostility towards…ah…Uncle Bouchard!" The Vicomte looked at me, thoughtfully. "Monty is the most even-tempered, tolerant man I know. Whatever could Bouchard have done to push him to such lengths?"

Smiling, I turned to look at our private railcars, finally being coupled to the train, now having arrived nearly three hours late. I noticed ours' were the very last on the train, with several passenger and cargo cars before them. I wondered how this would affect our travel…

"No doubt Monty will share with you his ordeal at the hands of…Uncle Bouchard. I, however, believe it was Monty's inability to recognize when it was time to…er…shut up."

De'Chagny laughed outright, and nodded his head. "Yes, I can believe that Bouchard's prickly sensibility and Monty's lack of finesse provided ample entertainment for you, Mademoiselle Butler."

We both laughed politely and returned to watching the train. I noticed Bouchard, next to a large elm, watching us. I smiled, and raised one hand, wherein he casually turned completely around, putting his back to us, and applying the handkerchief.

"I wonder that you should trust him so easily. It would not take much for him to disappear, you know…" The Vicomte did not actually act over-worried, I noticed.

"He will not do that, Monsieur de'Chagny. He has given me his word. And he has more than proved that I can trust him." I took the opportunity to ask the question that most concerned me. "Your lovely wife… please tell me how she fares?"

De'Chagny's smile lit up his face; I briefly entertained the wistful thought, '…to be so in love with one person…'

"Christine is fine. Never better." He kept smiling, but it quickly became pained. "However, I am here… The reason… There is something I need to tell you, Mademoiselle. About the... about Bouchard."

It seemed strange to hear de'Chagny say his name even as I looked at the man, who had returned to a half-turned orientation, arms crossed over his chest, head down, posterior and one foot against the tree. I turned to de'Chagny, who wore the face of a guilty man.

Slight annoyance crept foremost in my thinking, and vaguely resentful, I thought, 'Here come the surprises!" That I did not have the entire story, I knew; there were too many things that did not make sense. Then there was the man himself, who was nobody's elderly 'uncle', nor did he seem the love-maddened rejected swain. I realized that both of the de'Chagny's had either spared me or spared themselves, and either could mean some very unhappy surprises for me.

The boy fiddled with his hat, as he spoke. "If you remember, I told you that I was able to free Christine and myself from the...from Uncle Bouchard. But that is not quite true."

I sat quietly, clasped my hands, and let the boy talk, watching him in the periphery of my vision, as well as Bouchard. I knew of what he spoke; I just did not have any idea why it was so important that he had to ride for 20 kilometers to tell it to me again.

"As it happened, Bouchard demanded Christine stay with him to buy my freedom...my life... And to show him she would do it, Christine...she kissed him. And...he let us go. I know he did this because she was willing to stay with him in order to save my life. Mademoiselle, he could have let me go and made Christine stay..."

Bouchard was now leaning upon the elm tree, and watching us. Blatantly.

De'Chagny dropped his head, and his voice became gruff. "But he wept when she kissed him. My God, it was terrible, the look in his face... It haunts me still, Mademoiselle. I have never seen a heart break, but I did then. And he told Christine "Untie him and go!" He set us both free."

I looked again at Bouchard, standing so far away, yet inserting himself into this conversation, as surely had he stood here next to the bench. De'Chagny watched him too, then turned to me with shadowed eyes. "Mademoiselle, you must think I am mad, to come all this way to tell you this, and in truth, that is not the only reason I am here. But I wanted you to know this, to see that he…that Bouchard honestly loved Christine, that he...is..."

He stopped and gave a relieved sigh. It was now passed to me, no longer his problem. I went over the import of what he had told me, trying to fit it in with the picture Christine gave me, the one I knew for myself. There was so much here I did not understand, the hidden, inconvenient facts about the man I knew as Jerrod Bouchard. Who was at the moment kicking at the base of the tree, carefully, to avoid any mar to the shine on the toe of his boot.

"I wanted you to see this man is not... hopeless. He is not a...a...monster, as some would say. He set Christine free and did not harm me because Christine's happiness was important enough that he would let her go, let me live, even if it meant breaking his own heart."

Briefly I was caught by the idea of the Vicomte pleading his adversary's plight. My next thought; had he actually said that Bouchard had been called a 'monster'? This was a very strong word to use for a man whose only sin was to fall in love with his 'niece'!

I was getting that falling-down-a-hole feeling, either from exhaustion or the not-knowing-ness of this entire situation. I turned to the young gentleman who sat next to me, fussing with his ushanka, wondering if I should release him from his obvious sense of guilt.

"My dear Vicomte, I wish we would have had more time to talk about this." I smiled and patted his hand, "I have an idea that there is _much_ more than you are telling me." I tipped one long look at the man, and he had the grace to look abashed, but did not offer further revelations. I continued, "However, Jerrod Bouchard seems to be a very civilized sort and I expect we will do fine. I have no idea where we will be after the end of a year, of course." I rubbed my forehead, and gave the man of whom we spoke a glance. He was now sideways to us, chin lowered, arms crossed on his chest, being addressed by one of the red coated guards. The guard was pointing, motioning Bouchard to go to the cars. Bouchard was staring down the guard, obviously unwilling and nonverbal.

"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle Butler, I realize you have had a hellish handful of days. However, I request that you write as soon as you have settled in Tuscany. I want to know how things are going. Where we will go after the year is done is something I will deal with…in one year."

He smiled sadly, and helped me to my feet, picking up my basket, and offering his arm for support. "Christine will write you soon, also. We are pleased with Mademoiselle Nicollier; she seems to be exactly what my wife needed. I have seen such a change already in Christine; all she talks about now is the baby. This man," he waved his arm at the man himself, "is now off her conscience, and we concentrate on our marriage and family, instead."

I patted his arm. "Yes, but be quite prepared to be supplanted by the baby, Vicomte. New babies have a way of taking over their mothers' lives. It is something that a new father can find very... annoying." I chuckled to myself, thinking, 'Poor Raoul.'

Bouchard was watching us again. Three men were walking across the platform, motioning to the redcoat, whose face now reflected anger. He grabbed at his hat, shook his rifle, and I could faintly hear his voice over the noise of the train. Bouchard was paying him no attention whatsoever. The men reached the site of the confrontation and began arguing with the redcoat.

The Vicomte looked at me, stricken. "Oh. Yes, I have heard that before. There is little I can do about that." Such a glum face.

"Yes, there is, Monsieur!" I shook his arm vigorously, as old ladies love to do. "You can participate in the birth...be there, with your wife. Stay with her and hold her hands, help her push, rub her back during the pains and share her tears. Go through the hours of pain and anticipation with her. Then, when the babe is born, you can be the one to wrap the babe in the towels, to cut the umbilical cord, to hear your new child's first cry."

Seeing that we were now on our way to the platform, Bouchard turned on his heel and, walking past the three guards who were all loudly arguing, headed for the railcars.

"Why would I do such a thing? What would Christine think to have me see her…" Now I had disconcerted the boy. His eyes were full of doubt and his chin squared with distaste.

I stopped him and gave him a hug. "Because, my dear young man, then you would fall in love with your child along with Christine, having been right there to bring it into the world. And your wife? Ah! She would fall in love with _you_ all over again! Because you were man enough to overcome your fear, and share this important event with her."

We had reached the railcars. Bouchard was nowhere to be seen. I patted de'Chagny's arm and he set my basket up on the doorway to the car. I followed the basket up the steps, hoping to find a straight line to a flat surface; I wanted to sleep undisturbed for about a week.

The quarrelsome redcoat was standing several feet behind de'Chagny now, yelling at the three men who had confronted him; they ignored him, walking past to enter the last Pullman car. Another redcoat was standing nearly, trying to calm the hothead down.

De'Chagny called to me. "Mademoiselle Butler?"

I turned to see him standing shoulders squared, face set in resolve. "I will do that which you suggest. What you say makes sense. Oh, and please check out the things that Christine sent for you in the last car. I think you will be pleased."

"You are a good man, Raoul de'Chagny. Do not forget to let me know as soon as possible regarding your lady's progress!" Lifting his hand, he then turned and strode away, back toward the landing where I first saw him. I turned and made my way into the Pullman.

**************  
Because 'public' rail lines were under the directorship of, and primarily financed by the French Republic, there was little continuous rail travel from one place to the next, provided by the government. The war with Prussia and one bloody revolution left France with little in the way of cohesion, much less funding for such speculative projects. So it was that private industry paid for the building of rail lines between centers of manufacture or agriculture to Paris and other major cities. It still left train travel in France a haphazard enterprise for many parts of the country, especially where water travel still enjoyed strong advocacy. But traveling to Lyon then Chambery offered the most direct, least problematic line of travel to Italy, and Italy had an excellent rail system, having recognized the future of mass transportation immediately. In Chambery we were to meet a feeder line to the Italia National Rail, and would hence travel to Turin, Alessandria, and then turn southwest for Genoa and down the coast to Livorno, Italy. From there it would be a matter of a carriage and loaded wagon ride over the six kilometers along the Ligurian Sea coast to our final destination, Petite Belle Maison.

No sooner had I placed my tired, aching, bony bottom in a chair but Abrigaun flew through the front Pullman's fore exit, grabbed me by the arm, and demanded I accompany him to the rail ticket office. I insisted on finding Bouchard first, and did so, sitting in the second Pullman with Monsieur and Madame Gadreau, houseman and housekeeper, neither of whom I had met. I no more than opened my mouth to announce my departure with Abrigaun than he propelled me back through the adjoining exits, and out the side, to the rail administrative offices. My last glance of Bouchard was unsettling; he looked thunderously angry.

Monty Abrigaun was soon in heated negotiations with the officials in the Corbeil Rail Station and the CRR Line, insuring that our needs would be addressed throughout the trip, and the cars would be properly marked for immediate coupling with the CRR engine upon reaching Lyon Station, and again at Chambery to continue to Turin, Italy, and finally Genoa, Italy for the final leg of our travel. I found I was required to sit in on this parley, to receive last minute instructions and admonitions, sign papers, give an oath of veracity, and take possession of said documents. Abrigaun not-so-covertly provided each official with a neat little envelope filled with multi-franc notes in exchange for duly signed, noticed, stamped, initialed, and witnessed documents.

We then changed offices to meet with the self-important bureaucrats of the Republic of France. As the person of 'authority', I acknowledged guardianship and responsibility for those who would be under my authority: Dietre Chanson and Thom Xavier, guards; Emanuel and Anna Gadreau, majordomo and housekeeper. Jerrod Bouchard was my 'patient' and a free citizen of France, herein identified as suffering from a 'nervous condition'. His stay in Italy would coincide with mine. I do not wish to recall the look that I received when I related this information to the poke-faced gentlemen who sat behind the counter. Abrigaun was openly livid at their not-too-subtle insinuations about the 'treatment' I would be dispensing to my patient. I simply stared them down, which had some effect. In the end, however, each French pocket-farmer was given his little envelope of francs in exchange for duly signed, noticed, stamped, initialed, and witnessed documents.

The florid, overstuffed mountebank who represented the Italian government required a great deal of 'compensation' for the sleepless nights he was sure to suffer for allowing Bouchard, a patient with a known mental condition, into his country. He also required said compensation for his wife: worry would no doubt rob her of the conjugal pleasures of her husband; and his daughter: an anxious parent was an irritable parent. I nearly inquired if the family dog would require compensation, but realized I would just be giving him ideas. At no time did he express concern for the safety, slumber or.. ah… so on for the citizenry of Italia. I gather they would be expected to do their own graft and blackmail…

I signed papers that applied to Bouchard's and my status in Italy, as well as the taxable disposition of any household goods we brought with us. During all this, many multi-lira notes were passed along with duly signed, noticed, stamped, initialed, and witnessed documents.

The wrestling then began in good earnest with the border official from Italy, who was loath to allow the three private cars the use of the Italian National Rail tracks. Abrigaun displayed bill of sales and proper tax stamped licenses that showed all three cars were…surprise!…Italian-made to superior Italian standards by a much-ballyhooed subsidiary of the British Pullman Car Company. Each car was especially ordered through the INR for purchase by the de'Chagny family for their yearly trips to Petite' Belle Maison, right there in Italy!

Instead of being cheered by this news, the man was practically in tears. He explained to Abrigaun, in some detail, how frequent use by ANY car in France, by Frenchmen (or Frenchwomen, 'Scusilo, signora') imbued the very wood and metal itself with Frenchness. Therefore the cars were French, and he was again loath to allow such inferior railstock to use the INR tracks.

Abrigaun must have at last run low on francs or patience, both of which had seemed bottomless to this point. He became red in the face and began sweating; he was in a temper of such proportions I feared he would suffer a stroke or commit murder. Clearly oblivious to his own approaching mortality, Italy's most vigilant watchdog for the ethnic integrity of Italian tracks reinforced his arguments with examples of catastrophes beyond imagination. All were attributable solely to French railcars allowed use of Italian train tracks, according to him.

Chin deep in disgust most dire, Monty paid the man his blackmail, whereupon we were given papers to keep in the cars at all times, papers to be fastened to the cars outside at all times, copies of the same papers in case the papers on the outside blew off, were rained upon and destroyed, were wantonly pulled off, etc. We were warned that we would be heavily fined if any or all of the above happened, however, and having copies of the papers might possibly not save us. Abrigaun was audibly grinding his teeth by this time. The Italian border official just smiled at him, and patted his fattened pocket, in exchange for the…etc. etc. etc.

I was again impressed with the amount of money that was being tossed at the problem of Jerrod Bouchard. From the day I left Brighton, England the steady ring of the King's coin (although there was no longer a king in France…ah-hem) had been the heartbeat of this entire operation. This morning I had watched as thousands of francs in bribes showered from Abrigaun's hands to liberally oil the train tracks from here to Livorno, Italy.

By the end of the morning, there was no longer discernible the even-tempered Monty Abrigaun of my acquaintance. Aggressive, demanding, and beetle browed with suspicion, he hounded each official, using five-syllable words freely to confuse and confound. He clucked and tut-tutted, said scandalous, acrimonious, and libelous things about the respective offices, and governments, threatened to report the extortion to this or that high official. For every franc or lira he handed out he removed a corresponding chunk of façade', forcing each man to openly reveal themselves as the low, grasping thugs they were.

Not that it made any difference in their low, grasping behavior.

Despite my sagging everything…energy, spirits, attention span, eyelids, arches…I was enrapt for the three hours Montague Abrigaun became a six-foot killer solicitor, armed with a venomously evil temper and bottomless bank account.

Upon again arriving at the platform that fronted our railcars, Abrigaun pulled me towards him, cupping my elbows in his warm hands. "Mademoiselle, I realize I may never see you again. Therefore, I am going to kiss you."

He removed his hat, and he did so, for a good long time. Quite well, also, I am inclined to believe.

Then he smiled, reset his hat, and walked quickly back toward the platform where I had first seen de'Chagny hours ago.

Exhausted and now totally without a coherent thought in my kiss-muddled head, I turned for the closest railcar, climbing the steps, again seeking the elusive nap.

The first person I met upon entering the car was Emanuel Gadreau, our houseman and major domo. Emanuel was dark haired and mustached, short, as in a tad over five and one-half feet, and very broad but certainly not fat, with the complexion and roughened features of a man who spends his time out of doors. Upon presenting himself to me, he gave the following personal resume': He was French-born, spoke English (very well, I might add), also Italian and German. He was used to being in charge of people, having worked at the de'Chagny estates in both western France and Switzerland as houseman, head gardener and head groundsman. Anna Gadreau, matching exactly in height, but buxomly diminutive, was the opposite in coloring, being blonde, blue-eyed, and very fair with beautiful skin. Emanuel tugged her forward, and advised me that his wife would be our housekeeper. She spoke nothing but French, but he was working with her on English and Italian. At a small signal from her husband, Anna said "Good afternoon, Mademoiselle," in sweetly accented English.

I smiled, and responded, "Bon après-midi, Madame Gadreau."

Her husband then launched into a list of his wife's accomplishments that both reassured and terrified. Anna Gadreau was a housekeeping marvel if one half of what he related was true. Looking into his earnest face, I believed it one hundred percent. He handed me the contract he and Anna had signed with de'Chagny for safekeeping. He sent his wife off to fetch noon meals for our party, something which I required if I was to stay conscious for even the next five minutes.

Emanuel then requested my thoughts on assignment of sleeping quarters for those in our party. There were two 'suites' to each car. I fuzzily considered the question, never quite pinning down just how many there were in our party…five? Twenty?

Before I could so much as form a word, however, Emanuel explained that he felt it would be best if he, his wife and I shared the first car. Bouchard would share with the two de'Chagny guards, Thom Xavier and Dietre Chanson, with Bouchard in the suite located directly to the front of that car. Xavier and Chanson would be sleeping in shifts and 'keeping an eye' on Bouchard whenever I could not.

Emanuel explained that because one of the federal guards had already been involved in a brawl at a local bar and appeared this morning still drunk and quarrelsome, he had requested they bunk in the forward compartment of the cargo car or spend their time up with the general passengers, two cars ahead of us. Emanuel did not care at all for the federal guards. One of them, he whispered, had brazenly touched his wife...

We agreed that it was a good thing their time with us would be very short… four-five days at most.

I immediately put Emanuel in charge of the guards, which he accepted without question. I told him that perhaps we should send the drunk fellow back to Paris, wherein he said "I already tried, Mademoiselle. He will not go. I will, however, keep an eye on both of them, and keep them as unhappily busy as I can whenever they appear in our cars." His big smile certainly told me that Emanuel had in brains and cunning many times what he lacked in height.

Emanuel insisted on showing me where I would be sleeping. I would have the rear suite in the forward car, with the adjacent end exits between Bouchard 's and my suites. This served my sense of propriety well enough.

The sleeping alcoves were located at the ends of each car, one to the right and one to the left. They were 'open', as access to the 'tween doors needed to be preserved, but there were heavy brocade curtains about the actual area to provide some privacy.

The platform beds were not wide but very adequate in length, with storage beneath that promised many stubbed toes by the time we reached Livorno. One lavatory was provided to each car, of a good size with bathing as well as water closet appurtenances, and room for personal care. Each car had an exit fore and aft, the 'tween exits if you will, as well as one right in the middle, but that exit would be locked from the outside before the train moved.

There was a small sitting room in the middle of each of our two sleeping cars, complete with table and four chairs, and a large chaise lounge, and two low-backed casual chairs, all done in rich velvets and brocades. A deep enameled iron sink set into a long, high commode was fastened against one wall, with a large crockery tank of potable water also set in a recess in the tiled top. Any waste water (as well as everything else that went through the plumbing) went out the vent pipe through the floor and, presumably, out onto the tracks. There was an ice box, with no ice, which was just as well, as cold as it was in the car. An oil heater was attached to the wall beside the cabinet, amidships in the car. Large windows were on one wall of each sleeping alcove and on both sides of the small sitting room, with heavy brocade drapes to keep out the cold.

Each of the cars was decorated sumptuously; the walls were papered in a rose, ecru, and gold pattern; the chaise lounge was gold and cream brocade with the casual chairs each in rose. All the furniture and other appointments were beautifully crafted in handsome, yet sturdy style. No doubt if you had to travel, this was the way to do it.

At that time, Madame Gadreau arrived with a huge basket containing a great many wrapped items. She rounded up Xavier and Chanson, gave them their meals plus those of the redcoats and sent them to their car. Bouchard seated himself to my right at table, putting his right side to the wall, still patently unhappy. No doubt he had learned that he would be bunking with the 'boys', and was missing my fair company already.

Anna Gadreau brought us our wrapped meals, and I noticed that she leaned close, nearly lying upon Bouchard's shoulder, to give him his meal. Granted, she is short, and Bouchard sits 'tall', but surely, she could serve him without lying across his back, yes?

Anna again leaned into Bouchard and asked him a question, in a soft, low voice, the gist of which I did not catch. I could watch Bouchard's face, yet could not see Anna's beyond her left cheek and ear. Bouchard canted his head in a suspiciously coy manner and looking first into her eyes then down at her mouth, he purred his answer to her in his deep, rich baritone. His well-shaped lips did things with the words '"L'eau juste, merci, Anna," that were just short of indecent.

Anna Gadreau became as motionless as a frightened hare, until Bouchard finally looked away, and… the spell broken… Anna straightened, stood for a moment by his shoulder, and walked to the sink to fetch his glass of water.

He knew I was staring pop-eyed at him. Vaguely shocked, I realized he had wanted me to witness the little '_moment prive' _between he and Madame Gadreau. Anna placed his water before him, leaning close again. When she moved away, he winked at me. Dropping my head into my hands, I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. "No, no, no, Bouchard. No…" I refused to look into his devilishly grinning face.

Crossing to me, Anna made several noises at me, several times in a row. Just as I had caught 'tea', and was working on the other word, Bouchard patted my hand, explaining sotto voce' "She asks if you want hot tea, coffee or wine."

I scowled at Bouchard. "_The' chaud, Anna, merci'_." I politely smiled at her, although she was looking at Bouchard again. I thanked him also, winning a toothy grin and a nod for my trouble. No arousing lip-watching for me, however…

Having delivered meals to each of her charges, Anna decided to sit next to me and explain the amenities offered in the public cars before ours, in slow, infantile French. I smiled dimly, and mentally pleaded with her to go away, as I stolidly tried to make sense of what she said, and a meal out of ham slices, potato casserole', and brown roll. I was making hash of both endeavors.

Having worked his way through his meal in the economically fastidious fashion with which he did most things, Bouchard watched me eat and feign understanding to Anna. I have no doubt he knew I was getting one word in five… Fine then, in ten. His mood and expression were completely recovered, I observed bitterly, as he continued to flirt outrageously with my housekeeper. After another riveting oral performance by Bouchard for Anna's benefit, she arose from her chair, pointed to the closest sleeping alcove and said, quite clearly, "You go sleep." I nodded my understanding, and sighed loudly when she went away.

"Meals are served in the dining car, which is three cars up," Bouchard tipped his head toward the forward end of the car. "You may be interested in this: there is a bar available ahead of that. Lovely Anna asked if you would prefer she fetch your breakfast and bring it to you in the mornings. I told her as you were obviously deaf, dumb, and all but unconscious due to lack of sleep, she should inquire after you have had a nap."

I must have given him a most uncharitable look. He gave that sweet smile, the lifting of those fascinating lips rounding his cheek and warming his pale green eyes. After applying his napkin to his mouth, Bouchard unfolded gracefully from his chair, and pushed it beneath the table. Stepping directly behind my chair, he slipped his hands down along my arms to beneath my elbows, then lifted to coax me from my seat. Thus held, I was push-guided to my sleeping alcove.

I sat on my bed, and held my hand up. "I thank you sir, you are kind. I will be fine from here."

I felt too exhausted to move. I considered just falling backward on the bed and stared at my boots, willing them to fall off my feet. Bouchard cleared his throat, "Am I to undress you too, Madame Butler?"

"Sir, _that_ is not amusing." I vaguely attempted a look of shocked modesty.

In answer Bouchard bowed, and displayed both sides of his left hand, tugging up the sleeve, and made a fist. He proceeded to pull a handkerchief out of his fist. Snapping it smartly, he lay it upon the blood-stained right leg of his trousers, lifted my right boot and placed the sole against his thusly protected thigh, and swiftly popped the loops off the boot's buttons. My left boot was dealt with in the same manner.

I responded, "I am now amused", and gave him a gracious smile. I also recognized my handkerchief.

Folding the handkerchief, he placed it in his vest pocket, then patted it. Before I knew what had happened, he had hooked one arm under my knees, and the other at my shoulders, lifted me, and just as quickly rearranged me so I was now lying correctly on the bed. My traveling quilt appeared magically from behind his back, and was shaken vigorously above to fall in perfect cover upon me. I did not protest of liberties taken, just sighed, idiotically, "Monsieur Bouchard, I love you, and my feet thank you." He gave a snort, tickled one foot, and…pulled my unfolded handkerchief from beneath my right foot, and dropped it gently upon the bed. He pulled the bed curtain across, shutting the world away.

I fell asleep with a smile, but thought, felt, and heard no more.

*******

I slept the remainder of the day and most of the night, apparently. My pocket watch said it was a touch past 4 a.m. by the small oil lamp next to the rear exit. A peek under the heavy drapes out the window showed a dark landscape flashing past. I found I was in need of both a visit to the lavatory and a long cool drink. First, however, I needed to divest myself of my clothing as I felt as if I had spent the night rolled up in a carpet!

Stripping to my chemise and drawers and pulling my wrapper and fresh smallclothes and chemise from my bags, I tiptoed to the washroom. There I spent a great deal of time washing up, brushing my teeth and hair, and generally catching up on hygiene. It felt wonderful to put on a silky clean chemise, don my wrapper and walk barefoot over the thickly padded Persian carpet to the sitting room.

The train was underway at traveling speed, rocking back and forth gently, and the sound the wheels made on the rails was a constant, 'ticka ticka ticka thump' underfoot. Actually, you felt it up through your feet, as much as heard it. I wondered what mad state I would have achieved by the time we stumbled off our railcars in Livorno for the last time.

Two small oil lanterns of brass and heavy, wire-crossed glass were the only light in the small living area, but I could see well enough to keep from slamming my toes into furniture. The car was warm, the small heater having done a fine job of fighting off the nighttime chill. Finding a large tin cup in the basket of table service set in the sink, I filled it with a long draw from the huge crockery jar of drinking water and downed it in one long continuous swallow. I drew myself another full cup, leaned against the commode, looking out the strip of uncovered window at the passing shadows of the French landscape. No lights from farmsteads or small towns were to be seen, and the sliver of moon had disappeared from view. Dawn had not yet lightened the eastern sky.

Returning to my bed was out of the question; I was wide-awake. I sat upon the chaise lounge and stretched my legs out before me, wiggling my toes, and wondering how this day was to pass. I might have to move up to the passenger car ahead and read. Perhaps I could talk Monsieur Bouchard into a game of cards; I had a couple decks and a Cribbage board in my basket. We might as well start figuring out how we would fill our time together. I have no idea why the idea of spending day in and day out keeping track of the man was not more daunting. He seemed the kind of person who would always need something to do; my job would be to insure his occupation did not include sneaking back to Paris and terrorizing the de'Chagnys.

Or seducing my housekeeper. I was entirely astonished at this behavior; it seemed he was openly entertaining himself by confounding me; why else did he choose to behave so while I sat little more than arm's reach away? It was not polite, it was not gentlemanly, nor was it at all smart, considering Anna's spouse was armed, and seconds from walking in.

Was he trying to disrupt our trip perhaps, sabotage the future peace of Petite Belle Maison, or merely amusing himself by behaving totally out of character? What happened to the man who swore his life was in my hands, for at least the next year?

Somehow I could not see Jerrod Bouchard as a man who amused himself with idle flirtations, or sexual conquests. But what did I really know about Jerrod Bouchard?

My water was gone, my thirst slaked. Hunger was now making vocal its demand for attention, and I thought to fetch a few of the sweet biscuits I had slipped into my basket at the outset of our trip from Paris. I would dress for the day, unearth my Jane Austen, and find suitable light by which to read. Slipping my wrapper off as I had become very warm, and folding it over my arm, I put my cup in the sink. I turned to walk to my sleeping alcove.

It was in that instant that a hand closed over my mouth, an arm wrapped about my chest, and I was yanked back against a hard body...

Within three heartbeats I knew who it was. His scent was unmistakable: clean male, Gentlemen's Hair Tonic and the sandalwood soap with which he would have washed and shaved.

By the time that information had made it to the required area of my brain, I had stomped his right foot with one hard, bare heel, and by twisting my upper body, delivered an earnest elbow to his ribs. I was immediately released by my attacker...whose identity now flashed to mind... and I whirled about to face him. My apology stalled upon my lips as I stared into the convulsing face of the Angel of Death.

Bouchard grabbed my shoulders in his big hands, and long steely fingers dug viciously into my bare flesh. He no longer knew who I was, only that I had caused him a great deal of pain. His face was pulled taut around a frightening snarl; his eyes had gone opaque in mindless rage.

I stared witless into those eyes, the bird to the snake, and waited for death. I am ashamed to admit that I did nothing to save myself.

Suddenly, I felt myself spun back the other direction by some effortless sleight of hand. Capturing my arms beneath his, he pressed his hands, splayed and ruthlessly clutching, to my breast and belly, and I was enfolded by his rigid body. His face was pressed firmly against the side of mine, searing hot, and I could feel his eyelashes flutter against my cheek as he panted, in rage or pain, into my ear.

"I didn't want you…to become a terrified…screaming harpy…when I moved out…from the dark! I fell asleep…here...on the floor."

A deep tremor swept my body, making my voice falter. "Oh, Bouchard..."

He stepped back, slipping his hands back until he held my upper arms imprisoned between his big hands. My body shuddered again at the chill air that found my back and arms at his retreat.

"Do NOT turn around…_please_…" he whispered. He hesitated, almost as if he did not wish to release me. Then he was gone…

I stood, facing the little oil lamp that burned at the Gadreaus end of the car, and heard nothing until he slipped through the door between our cars. Mindlessly, I turned to go to my bed, but I could not lie down; could only sit upon it and curl myself about my knees. It was several minutes before my heart returned to its normal trot, instead of the panicked gallop with the occasional bolt and buck.

My shoulders hurt, and I rubbed one absently…my hand came away wet, red with blood. I could feel several bruises coming up across my shoulders, and at least five crescent-shaped nail impressions were torn open and bleeding freely. Fetching a washcloth from my toilet case, I soaked it in cool water and witch hazel to soothe the bruising and stop the bleeding.

As my shocked disassociation faded, I found I could not stop my mind from reconstructing what had just occurred. I saw again the madness in his face, the feral curl of lips. I felt the crushing iron grip of his hands…and the feel of his face tight against mine. I puzzled over this last; his skin had been scalding hot yet curiously as smooth as a fine china plate. I then realized he had put the right side of his face against me, and the glassine scar tissue would have felt just that smooth.

I did not wish to recall his eyes. At this moment, I wished never to see them again. For I knew what was there…_I knew_. And it did not frighten me that I had been so close to dying violently; it frightened me that I cared so little.

I sat on the bed and shivered, hugging my quilt, still seeing his face…

**************************

I cannot breathe! My chest is afire with sickness and I shake with this iniquitous excitement. My heart is near to exploding in my chest...it hammers against my ribs, and I wonder that it has not, a hundred times before, when this affliction is upon me. Arms wrapped about my heaving ribs, cadaverous legs thrust before me on the bed, I rock myself in a miserable, childish attempt to soothe and quiet the wakened demon inside.

Looking at my hands, I find several with blood under the nails..._her blood_.

I nearly killed her. Oh, I wanted to, Erik wanted to! Enraged by her defensive attack, blind to all but the part of me that is Erik, I had moved to seize her neck. My hands had hungered for the feel of collapsing cartilage…anticipated the buzzing vibration of her last breath as it struggled past her shattered larynx. I stared into her face and knew I was about to watch her die, throttled by my own hands.

Yet, I did not, God help me, I did not! I have hurt her, but I…_did not_...kill her. My hands closed on her...but not on her neck. It took every bit of my will to keep them there...on her shoulders.

I wish to howl at her for dragging me so close to the beast within, for putting us both in such danger! Could she not have known how close she came to death? And to look at me in such a way…her eyes, like a hot flame to dry tinder, I was all but lost again! I do not know where I found the strength to turn her away, to restrain her without…violence. Knowing what would have happened if I would have just stepped back from her…she would turn, her eyes reaching out, seeking...utterly open to the monster who drives this terrible compulsion.

I do not imagine I could have stopped then; it would have been…too much.

Surely she knows, in fact I _know_ she does. Why else does she look in my eyes with such intensity, seeking, always for that of me which I would kept hidden. The demon, the devil's child…

And herself, she offers thoughtlessly, without regard to what I might see. Her darkness. Her weakness....I could pinch it out as if it were but a candle. I cannot help what I am!

I gingerly rub the insulted toes on my right foot, gritting my teeth, yet gladly allowing the pain to shift my thoughts. It feels as if one is truly broken, but the rest battered painfully. My ribs are bruised also on the left side, and I cannot help but curse sharp elbows and bony, brawling women generally, and this one in particular. Yet I now remember Butler said she would answer any insult to her person with one of her own.

It would appear she means it. "Perhaps grabbing her was not the thing to do," I tell myself.

_She shivered when I let her go._

I need to sleep, and I need to…forget. Except, perhaps…the feel of her cool cheek against mine and her smooth body under my hands, my hand on her breast. The smell of rose scented soap accompanies the memory of the woman's body. This I might keep for just a bit... I wonder that it might be all I ever know of any woman.

I taste tears, and know I mourn for all I do not know, may never know, because of what I am.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

I need to deliver an apology, and cannot, for the life of me, find the cursed woman so I may do so! I find myself in a singular position….oh the irony…. I need to avoid certain people and not be seen by others. Perhaps I require a trapdoor or two, a few hanging catwalks just below the ceilings, or an 'invisible' door to halls within walls. What a pity there is no chandelier I can drop onto my red-coated friend, Plourde.

Devil take the woman, is she not supposed to be keeping track of _me_?

I finally take the unheard of step of asking one of the fine gentlemen who are sharing my cattle car if they might have any idea where to find Mademoiselle Butler. Xavier is the hopelessly timid one; he all but shoves his fingers into his mouth and grabs Chanson's coattail in terror. It appears I am the Boogey-Man, the Big Bad Wolf, and Rumplestiltskin in one unlovely package.

Chanson asks me, very carefully, why I seek her, and I explain with my sunniest gargoyle smile that I wish to take Mademoiselle Butler to see her surprise in the last car. Since both guards know of the 'little' surprises that await her there, and everyone is aware that she has not yet been to see them, they both nod. Chanson advises me he saw her one or two passenger cars ahead when he went up for his breakfast. I incline my head and express to Monsieur Chanson my fervent gratitude. Xavier peeks around him, big-eyed.

With great effort, I am able to stop myself from saying "Boo!"

Looking through the door to the forward sleeper car, I see Anna Gadreau sitting at table, reading the gossip sheets from the newest 'la Epogue, eating a sweet bun. This is the one person I particularly wish to avoid. However, short of crawling over top of the car, I see no way but to slip past her silently, or… Ah, the cavalry has arrived. Emanuel has just joined her at table. I cannot think that she will want to exchange innuendo and heated glances with me before her husband.

I push through the rear door, nod to the Gadreaus politely as I stride through, as if I am on my way to breakfast. Anna squeaks inarticulately drops her paper. Emanuel tells her "Mademoiselle Butler is ahead. Let _her_ get his damned breakfast!"

********

She is asleep, or so it appears but for her upright head and curiously positioned hands, both in her lap, palms up, fingers curled in an oddly tender way. I can feel the stillness surrounding her, within her, and it comes to me that she is in a place that I can never find: she has withdrawn _inside_. Nadir espoused such a thing, calling it meditation, a type of intense focus to the inner self. It further reminds me of how curious a woman Mademoiselle Asilyne Mharie Butler is. Pragmatic yet spiritual. How the Daroga would adore her…

I am able to slip past her knees and sit in the upholstered bench across from her without noise. That is, after all, my claim to fame as the Opera Ghost: stealthy movements, except when terrifying the occasional ballet brat, _ad nauseum_. After my months spent locked on the Fourth Ward of the Rois' Home Pour la Défectuosité, enjoying the Republic's program of uneven nutrition and little exercise, I am annoyed at the amount of noise my knees make. I am weak; it is hard work moving with control. Throughout my youth and for most of my years as the Opera Ghost, I enjoyed a near-supernatural strength, with well-oiled joints and admirable muscle tone. No more, alas. I imagine Butler could easily out-wrestle me. It is a lowering thought.

Now I am arrived, ready to deliver my sniveling self and an apology, to throw myself upon her mercy and beg her forgiveness. I am nervous and…yes, anxious of the possible reception. However, she is 'away' for now, and I am given a reprieve. I am most content to sit, wait, and watch France roll away, past the window.

I enjoy the glory of the sun rising above the trees for the first time of my new life…I saw no sun to speak of in Corbeil…and I try to keep this optimistic theme to heart. But, as they must, my thoughts take the painful turn to the violence I committed upon Aislyne Butler this morning. Considered reflection has brought home to me the enormity of the consequences I now face; I am anxious to know what my brutality against Butler has cost me.

Looking again at her, I cannot imagine what she is going to say, or do, upon seeing me. Will she reject me, abandon me to French justice? Scream?

Has her unfortunate meeting with Demon Erik frightened her that much?

My first thought is to howl "The feeling is mutual! You terrify me!"

Too many times in the past brace of days she has alarmed me with her strength of will, and self possession, the intellectual vigor with which she approaches life. It is fortunate Butler is tall; a short woman with this much force of character would be laughable. As it is, Butler is a singularity, and having said that, I ask myself: to what do I compare her? Perhaps the world is full of such women, as novel to me as Mademoiselle Butler, yet as common as cotton drawers! I have spent my time dealing with the capricious, fickle, mercurial, unstable, volatile, and self-centered in the theatre, and therefore, may have no reasonable frame of reference!

I am in awe of the physical prowess she displays during times when even I would prove pathetically feeble. Her stoic acceptance of what had to have been a very painful wound... And to then converse with her surgeon regarding suture length and neatness, even as it is her own flesh being stitched! It seems unnatural!

I can also admire her quickness and physical vigor in dealing with her 'attacker' this very morning. My toes will heal, the bruises on my ribs fade, but the memory of her determined defense is something I would do well to remember! Did I not watch her shove dear Abrigaun back into his seat…twice? All this without an attack of the vapors!

Although, I now recall one or two slight 'spells' she suffered in the carriage that allowed me to further goad Abrigaun by offering her my shoulder, bloodstains and all.

Such entertainment this woman has provided!

I wonder that she did not drag my scrawny carcass out of the coach and proceed to draw my cork after the nastier of my remarks. 'Dry, skinny spinster,' indeed.

Inspecting Mademoiselle's relaxed countenance, I find that the usual frown lines, thinned, sallow lips and pale, loose cheeks of the 'true' spinster are totally lacking. Indeed, if there be anything to criticize at all, it would be the fact she has allowed the sun its way with the top of her nose and cheeks, and the skin above her neckline.

Yes, I regret calling her a 'dry, skinny spinster', and as she has referred to the conversation a time or two, I suppose it does rankle. Perhaps I should just segue into that and do a bit of fence mending there too. Good heavens, it is getting to the point of total self-abasement!

I hope she will find it in her to forgive me. I will not allow her to take any fault or blame for her response…she was, after all grabbed in the dark without warning. I have asked myself a dozen times…what possessed me to do that?

How thankful I am that Aislyne Butler is no emotional diva, childish chorus girl, or intemperate Beauty. In actuality, Butler seems to be rather uncompromisingly composed at all times…as if wrapped in steel bands. There was a time when acquisition of a strong set of steel cutters would have been my first objective. Right now, I believe I had best behave myself and pray Nanny Butler does not hold a grudge.

Nonetheless, I am assured that she will let me know exactly where we stand, and be brutally plain about it while she is at it. And herein lies the heart of my anxiety…

***********

Having tended my wounds properly and recovered my equanimity, I dressed and prepared myself for the day. I needed time alone, however, whatever my duties, or I would not be able to face Bouchard. Accordingly, I found a quiet corner in a relatively empty forward passenger car and installed myself on the sunward side, in a 'box' with nicely upholstered facing bench seats. I had my sketchbook, but preferred to watch the dark French landscape transform as the sun fired the distant snowcaps of the approaching Alps.

The beauty to be found outside the train windows was totally wasted upon me, however. I felt dreadful. I was deeply shaken and disheartened by the violent events of the morning, my optimistic outlook for the future lay in pieces about my boots. Agony upon insult, my wounded arm throbbed steadily with pain.

Checking it for signs of infection, I was cheered to find none. It had bled just a little after this morning's contretemps, but desisted after reapplication of the carbolated cream and change of bandage. The pain I hoped to endure, despite a good supply of pain-relief powders and tinctures that could possibly help. I still had a patient to attend to, and did not wish to feel groggy.

No doubt that was my biggest problem…brooding about Bouchard. I was struggling with the idea of trusting him at all, in the face of what I had seen in his face this morning. I argued both sides, and neither was particularly persuasive.

I had hurt him, and he responded in kind, and no doubt this is the code he has lived by most of his life in his dark, unloving world. Tell me I am being maudlin or melodramatic, but I know that Death's hands were upon me; when I looked into Bouchard's face, his eyes were those of a man who would kill me for bruised toes and ribs. The lesson learned was that I would never be able to physically protect myself from Bouchard with anything less than a well-placed bullet…if he was ever to rage beyond his ability to control. My shoulders ached from the power of his hands and the fury of his retribution. But I knew that my shoulders had suffered what was meant for my scrawny neck…and all that had saved me was Bouchard's self-control over his murderous instinct.

I could not spend the next year being afraid of him, nor could I avoid doing anything that might provoke his anger. Some sort of balance had to be struck, if only to keep him from feeling he could intimidate and control me through fear of his anger. I could see no answer without addressing the issue with the man himself. However, I did not see him stepping up to me and saying "Perhaps we need to talk about this." No, it was mine alone to fret with until I felt he could coherently discuss the situation.

Closing my eyes and clearing my mind, I sought a measure of peace by inviting the inner silence that for so long has served as my escape from life's kaleidoscopic madness. I learned long ago to pull inside and shut out the world: thus I restore my sense of inner balance. On this day, once there, I wallowed in the absolute center for a long time; whether ten minutes or an hour, I do not know.

When I opened my eyes, the sun had cleared the trees, and surpassed the windows, changing the light to indirect. Jerrod Bouchard sat in the long bench seat across from me. His eyes were on his hands, and as I watched he looked out the window, and a sideways grin flashed across his mobile lips. He was combed, shaved and the smell of fresh linen and sandalwood soap wafted my way. He wore the dark brown suit with the faint chalk pinstripe, and a mahogany silk waistcoat, lightly embroidered in gold and dark rose. His necktie was black, neatly tied about the upright collar, and he had folded the points of the collar down in the old-fashioned style, which suited him particularly. Though as shined and glossy as any big-town dandy, there was no artifice in the graceful way Jerrod Bouchard wore his clothing.

No doubt feeling my eyes upon him, he returned my look; there were no demons there, no darkness. The meeting of our gaze was as physical and shocking to me as if we had touched in some tangible way. I felt my nerves jump and a frisson of panic run down my spine. I dropped my gaze to my hands and forced my fingers to lay flat and not destroy the delicate silk net of my overskirt.

We sat like that for several minutes. I knew he was waiting for me to say something, but I would allow him decide the tenor of our conversation. I had made an ass of myself enough in one week to last me several years.

"I think I may have hurt you this morning."

I raised my eyes to his. What I saw there now nearly broke my heart. "Yes, but it is probably no more than I could have expected. Having stomped and jabbed you first, I mean."

He shook his head, and looked at his hands. "It is never my intention to lay hands on any woman just because she attempts to defend herself. I was just... " He did not shrug, but he looked up at me without reserve. "You surprised me. I was not expecting such a reaction."

I had to laugh; was he telling me that my reaction was extreme? "My dear Monsieur, I realize that I do not act like a gently-bred miss at all times. In truth, I will always be the wild pony-girl raised in the loneliest parts of Ireland. I have had to learn to protect myself, being raised with five brothers. Then too, the art of self-defense has been a necessary adjunct to my occupation; my patients have frequently been as mad as bedbugs."

I was rewarded with a puzzled look of inquiry. "I am sorry. I did not mean to imply you reacted without cause, Mademoiselle, and I was not impugning your good breeding or proper upbringing!" Gathering his thoughts, he seemed to hold his breath for just a moment, and schooling his face carefully, met my fascinated gaze with his. When he spoke, his voice was low, but rich with emotion.

"As my mother chose to drop me off at the closest freak show when I was but seven years, and I have no idea where my father might be, I will be the very last to be casting aspersions upon one's breeding and upbringing."

I gasped, shaking my hands as if to erase all I had said... "No, no... I never..." He ignored me completely.

"As for my mental state, you most likely have me well pegged. I am, indeed, as mad as any bedbug, although I have little personal experience with the actual insect." His smile was sweet, and painfully genuine.

"The past year has given me a great deal of time to reflect on my actions in the previous thirty years of my adulthood, Mademoiselle, and I have much to regret, repent and repay. I have done what I can of the later, having beggared myself in the process."

"I cannot ask a loving God to accept my repentance, as he obviously tossed me to the Devil the day I was expelled from my mother's womb."

"I am left with regrets. I assure you, this morning's events added to the number." His eyes never left my face. I sat gaping like a landed fish.

Argue if you wish, I know I heard an apology. At least, I felt he was offering an apology. "Monsieur...had I known it was you, I would have...I was…off guard! Please tell me I did not seriously injure your poor foot?"

He breathed deeply, and his face cleared of tension. Leaning back against his seat. "It is a bit sore, but I am thankful you didn't have your little boots on." He gestured toward my generously sized feet in wide, hard-heeled walking boots.

"Yes. My 'little' boots." I gave him a critical look. "You should allow me to examine your foot. I am a nurse. If nothing else, I can certainly make it feel better."

"Mademoiselle, I would blush." And indeed, his left cheekbone had gone a bit pink, just talking about it.

I decided to let it go. "Monsieur, be assured I will never seek to embarrass you." I turned my face towards the window, and watched the passing landscape. We spent several minutes like that, which was fine with me. I was still feeling more than a bit overset by the morning's events. I marveled in the fact that I could forgive him so quickly; when just minutes ago I was lost in dark thoughts of mistrust.

Suddenly, he grunted in apparent frustration. "Moreover, I do not understand the relationship between us. Are you my keeper? My nurse?" He turned a darkly amused glance at me. "Or perhaps you are just to keep me from killing myself with brandy and laudanum?"

I glared at him, "Are you serious? That is not funny, Monsieur!"

He snorted and glared back, "Dammit, woman, if I were to choose to do so, you certainly could not stop me!"

Irritated with his sudden temper, nonetheless I grinned spitefully, snapping, "I will remember, and save myself the effort!" I was rewarded with a lupine grin; apparently, Bouchard was delighted with my response.

His expression quickly fell back into a dark scowl, and his voice took on a grating quality. "I realize that I should probably have refused the…'gift'...of my life. I should have damn-well accepted the fate dealt me!" He became more irate by the moment. "I am now saddled with the responsibility of keeping you from being...throttled when you push me to the point of..." He actually gritted his teeth and rolled his eyes.

How fascinating! He would rather have lost his head than suffer the indignity of exercising some control over his anger! I nearly laughed at the absurdity; it was an intriguing point of view. He turned his face away to the window, and we sat thus for a few moments. Finally, he spoke so softly, I strained to catch his words.

"Mademoiselle Aislyne, my dear lady, I feel that a terrible injustice has been perpetrated on you. After all, you should be home, surrounded by family of your own, not moldering away with me, an ugly beast with the social grace of a street criminal and the personality of a wounded bear."

His 'good' side was to me, and I watched him, thinking he was very like his face; charming and handsome at one moment, emotionally tortured and wounded the next. I entertained the idea that perhaps he had more than a touch of the stage performer in him. Or maybe Bouchard was expressing himself the only way he knew how; with much hubris and drama.

I looked to my sketchpad, allowing him do his brooding. After all, there was nothing I could offer him. I had no idea how to answer his basic question. How was I to provide him those things he needed?

How could I show him that life and love were as available to him as anyone else, whatever his appearance, whatever had been done to him. It would require a close, loving, constant relationship that would give him reason to moderate his behavior and deal with his feelings of worth and abandonment. He needed somebody to trust; someone to demand better of him. He needed to learn moral values, and a sense of the sanctity of life. He needed to learn control of his anger!

And he needed to learn these things before the age of his majority! He needed a mother!

But his mother had done the unthinkable and unforgivable; she had rejected him, and then given him to the cruelest people on earth, the Romani. What was an unfortunate physical accident of birth made Bouchard into the Bogey Man. I have no doubt the freak-show atmosphere and terrible living conditions had completed a little boy's transformation into the troubled man who now sat across from me.

The man was attractive, he was clean and possessed impeccable manners. He had shown nothing but courtesy and proper regard to everyone we had had contact with since our trip began...with a few exceptions, but no matter. I was not certain, but I got the distinct feeling that he was well educated, articulate, somewhat of an intellectual. He had taught Christine de'Chagny to sing, and to play the piano. He was in some way involved with the Arts. He could be devastatingly charming. He was compassionate, sensitive to other's needs, and….

Oh, Butler, where now is his white horse?

I knew so very little about him in actuality, I was just as likely to be reading into him what I thought might be there. In fact, I had to wonder where this man had lived that he was able to escape any type of romantic relationship with a woman for so long before Christine. Not for the first time I wondered what Bouchard's age actually was.

And I heard de'Chagny's words: "...some who call him a monster."

I was compelled to drag my gaze off my knees because he was now staring at me. I sighed audibly.

He murmured, "You see, already you regret being tied to such as me."

I blinked at this left-hand remark. "Monsieur, you are mistaken. I accepted this assignment knowing exactly what and who you are. The de'Chagnys wanted me to know, so I could best help you."

"Ah, is that so? You say they told you everything?" He cocked his head, chuckled a bit, but I saw little humor in his face. "Somehow I doubt that greatly. However, explain to me please how you are to 'help' me?"

"Monsieur Bouchard, we must first get ourselves and the rest of our household settled in Livorno at Petite' Belle Maison. Beyond that..." I glanced around at the interested faces now watching us…, "Do you really want to discuss this here? I cannot believe that sitting in a public railcar is the place you choose to discuss your...antisocial tendencies." Coward that I am, I whispered the last two words.

"Antisocial? Is that what you believe my 'problem' to be?"

What my furtive whispers did not accomplish, Bouchard's outraged growl did; several faces turned our way. Insensible to anything but his immediate emotions, he leaned forward to snarl in my face. "Have you ever thought that society was 'anti-ERIK and only because of THIS?'" He pulled his hair back from his right cheek, exposing the blighted flesh.

I did not flinch. "I've seen no indication that anyone has slighted or cut you because of your appearance, Monsieur Bouchard! In fact..."

He cut me off furiously, half standing, his arm slicing the air between us. "In fact, you have seen nothing! Without some sort of disguise or mask I am avoided and treated as if I am a freak! Small children wail in terror when they see my face! You know NOTHING, damn you!"

I actually pressed myself back into my seat, as I suddenly had Jerrod Bouchard all but in my lap, his face a hand's breadth from mine. I placed my hands on his shoulders and gently tried to back him away. "This is exactly what will draw attention to us, Jerrod. Please sit and stop yelling."

After a moment of staring hotly into my eyes, he returned fully to his seat, but he was grimacing in an alarming way, and quivering, with anger or anguish, I could not tell. Both eyes were suspiciously bright, and blazingly hot on mine, but the right was becoming vivid red with the air whistling through the high defect in his nose.

"I care nothing for the society of men, Madame! Humanity has done nothing but punish me for what I cannot help, and condemned me to a life outside that enjoyed by even the most evil of men. I have suffered enough at humanity's hands… damn you all to Hell!"

As if to protect himself, Bouchard pressed his hand over the right side of his face and folded his body over the other arm, wrapped tightly across his chest. I could see he was consciously trying to calm down, although panting with emotion. "I wish only to live my life apart from...those who would judge me because of...of one side of my face!"

I felt every word as hammer blows to my heart. His body had taken the form of the child he once was, and I wanted to reach for him and hold him, comfort him...

_Which was insane!_

This was not what I do, not what I know is best. I could offer him _nothing_ if I was as involved in his pain as he was! Furious, I took a moment to glare at the most avid of our onlookers. As they were all looking at the back of Bouchard's head, they could see little anyway. I looked the proper spinster lady, grim and unfriendly.

It was time for Bouchard's first lecture in the class of hard lessons. I brought my emotions under control, and made my voice as unexpressive and austere as I could.

"Your wish is granted, Monsieur. We will be in the wilds of Tuscan wine country, with no society to be found. As for humanity, I cannot promise that we will not have a few about, and I do consider myself a member of that wretched group, 'damned to hell' I may be."

I leaned forward, into his space, dipping deep into fresh resentment at his attempt to bully me into submission. I did not intimidate easily, and I would not allow him to think I did. I found myself talking, however, to the top of his head.

"Because nothing else works, Monsieur, I will be exceeding frank with you: I have no real idea what is expected of you or me. I merely agreed to keep you from molesting the de'Chagnys, and/or killing anyone else for the consideration of a generous salary. So, Monsieur Bouchard, I will not scream and run, nor treat you less because of your face. I _will_ expect you to act the gentleman, no matter what your temper, no matter what the provocation. To summarize: I will do my job…and _you_ will behave, as you assured me you would do!"

Bouchard unfolded halfway and his face came up. I waited until his hot, narrowed eyes met mine before I continued; I needed to know he was listening to me.

"When my contract is up, Monsieur, I have no idea what will be your fate." I felt genuinely sick with what I was saying...

But I certainly had his attention. I met his glare with one of my own; he did not turn away. I suddenly felt tears pressing at the thought of…of leaving him adrift…but I was not going to let them show, nor allow my own empathy for this man get in the way of what I needed to say.

"What you need, my dear man, is to be shown a better way of reacting to the world around you, without regard to how the world reacts to you. This your parents should have instilled by example. Parents also teach us we are lovable, and they must teach us how to love in return."

When I spoke of parents, his brow furrowed, and teeth flashed in a warning snarl, but I ignored this…I _would _speak my mind, and damn his sensibilities! "Unfortunately, your parents chose not to do this. Hence you see yourself..." I shrugged, "...as you do, an unlovable beast and a ruined face. I am happy to say that I have found neither assessments to be at all accurate." I allowed a bit of an outward pull to my lips, a ghost of a smile.

He looked at my lips, and I got the impression that he was torn between anger and disbelief.

"When you say the de'Chagnys did not give me the entire story, _I do not doubt you! _I have no idea who they thought to protect, but it is a moot point, Bouchard. Whoever you are NOW, that is who you are, and I will deal with that person. NOT with Christine's avuncular voice coach or Raoul de'Chagny's rival for her affections."

I sat back, and softened my voice, if not my expression. "As you say, you have given restitution and done penance for your misdeeds. If both be true...and I have been given no reason to ever doubt you...there needs to be absolution given as well. As you seem to be the most unhappy about the past, that must come from you."

Bouchard was again expressionless, but his eyes were intense on mine.

"I was not five minutes ago telling myself what you need, my friend, is a mother. I cannot knowledgeably perform the office, having never had children of my own, or the prerequisite maternal urges. Therefore, I have only one thought, and that is you must 'parent' yourself. You are intelligent enough to pick up the nuances of right and wrong; if you are not sure, ask me, and I will try to advise where I may, if you will allow me."

I am quite certain no one had ever told this man that he needed to be his own mother!

"The very first item upon which you must exercise control is your damnable temper, sir." I stood and again placed my hands upon his shoulders, and looking down into his quiet, upturned face, delivered my final word on the subject. "Do NOT _ever_ get into my face again, Bouchard, or I will hurt you. I think you know now that I mean what I say."

He was obviously giving the idea some thought when I rose and went to my bed to shed tears privately.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Chapter 16**

Traveling by railcar through southeastern France has its moments of sublime pleasure, vistas of surreal splendor….and unending hours of tedious inactivity. Because spring was rioting across the countryside, and there was so much countryside, the temperate climate produced landscapes of near-fairytale beauty, salted frequently with small towns colored in pastel colors and quaint architecture. Since we slowed to a near stop…if not stopped entirely…for every village, mail stop or parish along the route, I was treated to a surfeit of small town architecture, in pastel colors, bursting in 'quaint'. It did not take long to realize that if we would be stopping or slowing at every village along the route, this would add hours to our travel. In fact, it would take nearly 24 hours to cover little more than 100 km.

Our first full day spent all together in the small space of the rail cars could only be considered…agreeable. Despite the availability of so many guards, I did consider that I was 'on the job', so I should be spending my days either supervising or providing entertaining activity for my charge.

Naturally, until we had arrived and settled in at Petite' Belle Maison, we had nothing to do but watch scenery, and settle for what amusements there were to be had on board a constantly moving (albeit slowly) train. I favored reading, sketching, and taking fast walks whenever we stopped for an hour or so. I could not compel Bouchard to do the same under our present circumstances, but he seemed agreeable with spending his time in the front Pullman, where Anna Gadreau and I spent our afternoon, looking through the Penny Women's Weekly and Gibson's Ladies & Family Gazette.

Dietre' Chanson joined us shortly after the noon repast, accompanied by his young shadow, Thom Xavier. Dietre' challenged Bouchard to a game of chess; I at first thought Bouchard would decline, but he gave Dietre' a measuring look and pointed at the table. We ladies adjourned to the casual chairs with our box of magazines and newspapers and pot of tea (which rattled constantly!). Soon the men were in deep play, and looked to be evenly matched in ability and strategic nuance. I found myself watching Dietre'…he spent much time studying the board, whoever had the play. Bouchard made his moves and then appeared to dismiss the game entirely, fiddling with a taken pawn or playing piano (so it looked to me) on his knees. Both men played with intimidating silence.

Anna Gadreau and I discussed…in faltering English, French, and much gesturing at magazine illustrations…possible amusements to be found amidst the wine country, and especially in Livorno. We fiddled with pencil and paper, and fertile imaginations over possible configurations of Petite Belle' Maison de'Chagny, especially as the de'Chagny's insisted on calling it the 'little mansion'. Having been in the 'big' version, I could only be thankful that the Italian version might be somewhat "petite". It would be exhausting for one housekeeper to keep up with a place half as large, even with the hire of local help.

As enthralling as all this was, Anna Gadreau was restless, and twice arose to seek diversion at the window. I was reminded, suddenly, of Christine de'Chagny and our first evening spent talking in her little conservatory. Her eyes had been constantly at the windows, too. I wondered how she was doing, and how her pregnancy had progressed, if the baby had been born yet…

Soon thereafter loud exclamations and much pounding of male hands upon table and each other announced a winner of the game. Dietre' had irrevocably checkmated Bouchard's white king…a fact that surprised me, and seemed to gratify Bouchard. He growled at Chanson, but in a very good natured way, and by the look in both faces, an important alliance had been forged. I liked Dietre' Chanson, if for no other reason than he had taken the much younger Thom Xavier under his wing. That he was also willing to extend a friendly hand to Bouchard induced me to like him exceedingly. At his request to be excused, stating that he and Xavier were overdue to accomplish tasks given them by Emanuel, I nodded and thanked him for providing such _divertissement_. His smile was warm and his look politely appraising, and I felt my own lips stretch wider in return.

Bouchard joined Anna and me in our perusal of the women's magazines, taking up position on the chaise with several piled beside him. I found it rather amusing to see Bouchard flipping through the luridly colored illustrations of adults and children in whatever passed as haute couture in London '82. He actually licked his finger in order to provide traction on the thick, glossy pages; I found myself watching this procedure with fascination at the sight of his tongue. He looked up to catch me staring, but I covered myself well by smiling blandly and returning to my London Gazette. I may have blushed a bit, however.

Anna then asked him to explain one page and next to translate an entire article in the 'Ladies Weekly" to her. Soon he was reading to her in French. I spent several moments just enjoying the agreeable sight… Bouchard's voice, along with his charming way of explaining those things that were no doubt foreign to Anna, was more entertaining than any magazine.

I eventually noticed one subtly alarming detail, however. Anna was leaning quite closely, and exposing quite an array of breast, and her eyes were spending as much time on Bouchard as on the magazine page. Inevitably, she placed on small white hand high upon Bouchard's thigh, wherein Bouchard jumped and shuddered quite noticeably, then dropped the magazine and shot to his feet when the door to the rear of the Pullman squeaked open and Emanuel's distinctive bootsteps were heard. "Anna? Where are you?"

Anna, of course, had fled the chaise and was picking up magazines and depositing them back into the box immediately next to my chair. However innocent she might look, Emanuel had an expression of weary suspicion upon his face, and gave both Bouchard and his wife hard looks. Bouchard looked guilty, immediately sitting and blindly reaching for another magazine; Anna merely looked bored as she coolly stacked and straightened periodicals into the box. Upon another glare from Gadreau in his direction, Bouchard hastily dropped the magazine. I giggled, hoping to deflect Emanuel's suspicious thoughts. I succeeded; Bouchard flushed and Gadreau gave him a deprecating smirk. Obviously a man who would read 'Gibson's' and blushed like a girl upon being caught doing so was no threat in Gadreau's mind.

I asked Emanuel's pardon for stealing his wife for the afternoon, whereupon he said, "Well, I take her back, but leave you with Bouchard with which to share your pretty magazines." His smile for me was as obsequious as one could wish, but I saw a sizeable load of smug in his grin to Bouchard. If I had not realized it before, I was coming to understand that Emanuel Gadreau may be short, but he was all French male when it came to the masculine art of ego-flexing.

The Gadreaus left to visit with acquaintances who were forward in the salon car. I retrieved the remaining magazines from next to Bouchard and replaced them in my sleeping alcove, during which Bouchard moved to sit at table and quite rudely, without permission, flip through my sketchbooks. Sitting across from him, I resisted the impulse to rip them from his hands; I knew he expected exactly this reaction from me.

After several quick glances my way, Bouchard finally said what was on his mind, "You do not seem to approve of the…friendliness between Anna Gadreau and myself. Yet you are as guilty in ignoring her pursuit of my company during the absence of her husband, am I not correct? I find that interesting, Mademoiselle."

I sighed, saying "Well you were merely reading to her. I saw you do nothing that should warrant Emanuel's anger. As for _her_ behavior…." I 'hmphed' in conclusion. "Yes, I should speak to her…"

Bouchard shook his head in negation. "I assure you, she has done nothing but look at my affliction. It seems an ugly gargoyle is quite fascinating to her." He gave a deprecating wave at his face.

"And you are encouraging her." A statement; a fact.

"Mademoiselle Butler, I am not interested in Anna Gadreau, and I am not 'encouraging' her to do anything…" Bouchard's face assumed an odd expression, as he said, "Unless, of course, familiarity with a misshapen monster is…." His chin gained altitude.

I interrupted sternly, "I believe you know better than accuse me of that." I stared hard at the sketchbook page he returned to perusing...his expression alternating between distain and disbelief. The sketch was of an elderly woman and her dog, sitting on the stoop before a small house. I had seen them from the coach when we had stopped in some small, unnamed village between Calais and Paris. There was nothing overly remarkable about the sketch, I thought, to warrant Bouchard's facial theatrics.

"Indeed, Madame Butler, do I know you? No doubt your fine, artist's eye finds my face less than appealing. Why here is a sketch of de'Chagny…he looks most annoyed…he looks this way always, as I remember… And here…here is a nice study of Abrigaun's profile." I made a gesture of denial, "No, I tore every one out and gave them to him when he admitted to being married. There is _no_ sketch of Abrig…"

Bouchard interrupted, "I see several sketches of anonymous faces and figures…several male…and this…this must be a sketch of…" Suddenly Bouchard ripped out the page, shoving it into a pocket on the inside of his jacket. "I will keep that one…" His expression was flustered; we both were aware the page held a detailed study of Madame de'Chagny. I had been very fond of that particular project!

"You are quite welcome, sir, I am sure!" I was beginning to feel sick at his willful pillage of my poor sketchbook.

"But nowhere, Madame…_nowhere_, do I find the slightest doodle…not a sketch or…or the smallest droll parody, of the monster you must travel with. Why…this wrinkled old woman and her wormy, flea-infested cur are of more artistic interest then the hideous gargoyle you have shackled yourself to."

Bouchard's expression was impassive, his voice as bland as oat porridge. But I knew what he was doing, and my hackles rose in reaction of his obvious manipulation. He turned several pages in the sketchbook, and stopped to grimace at the sketch of a close and busy Paris street, drawn whilst Abrigaun and I rested our feet at a small café in the Sentier Quarter, whilst purchasing the very clothes Bouchard was wearing.

"Stop it, Bouchard. Just…stop!" I thumped my hand upon the table with some force, and gave Bouchard a fierce look.

He looked surprised at my reaction, then assumed an expression of wounded sensibility. "I am sorry, Mademoiselle. I realize I am but your pawn and prisoner, and therefore have no right to cultivate even so shallow an _acquaintance_ as that offered by Madame Gadreau…"

I gritted my teeth, and growled, "Do NOT play games with me, Bouchard! You know very well _that_ is not the issue. It does not matter what the nature of your friendship with Anna is. What matters is what _Emanuel_ thinks of it. And so far, he has made it clear his wife is not to…to _socialize _with men."

"And you believe that fair! How can he dictate to her who she can and cannot talk to?" Eyes narrowed, he gave me an assessing glare, then asked "Does a man really have that kind of power over his…er…women?"

This astonished me, coming from a man of Bouchard's probable age. "Bouchard, it is generally thought entirely reasonable that a man dictate to his wife who she may or may not associate with. And yes…men do have that kind of authority over wives and daughters, if they are _tyrant_ enough to exercise it."

Again the speculative look crossed his face. "And what rights do I have over, say…my paid companion…my nurse? Do I not have some voice over who you _associate_ with, especially if such association proves disturbing for my…ah…emotional wellbeing?"

I disliked the way he airily, albeit gracefully, waved his hand across my person, as if denoting ownership . I responded primly, "Ahhhhh...no. You, my dear man, have no say regarding my actions or _associations_... Have we not discussed my role in your life for the foreseeable future?"

I rose and plucked my sketchbooks from under his hands, to be placed securely in my sleeping alcove. I could not resist poking my face into his and purring, "The day any man has the right to tell me what to do, Hell will be serving Italian ices!"

Bouchard laughed outright, but quickly subsided to his toothy wolf grin. He stood, and neatly returned his chair to its proper place beneath the table. Having lived with five brothers who considered such niceties superfluous and unmanly, I could not stop my thoughts from wandering down the list of Bouchard's more unusual...although very pleasant and definitely, masculine...attributes. His neatness and cleanliness of person was certainly highly regarded by me.

"Mademoiselle, have you yet visited the back cargo car? It was my intention to take you there earlier, before Chanson arrived with his chessboard."

Nonplussed with the sudden change of subject, I stared at him in surprise, and then demurred. "Why, no, I have not! I do recall a vague mention by de'Chagny...however…"

"Then you must put on your warmest wrap and come with me. I believe we both could use some fresh air."

I immediately fetched my heavy shawl from my bed, Bouchard waiting by the back exit. Two strides and I was at his elbow. He held out his hand…and without hesitation, I placed mine into his. He clasped it warmly and led me through exit doors and over the links between. We passed through the rear Pullman, wherein Bouchard touched his forehead at Dietre' then lead me out the back.

Upon reaching the cargo car, Bouchard whispered "Now, knock first, and enter…"

I did so.

Upon entry, I found myself in what was obviously a bit less than half a car, outfitted with sleeping pallets on the floor against one wall, two chairs that appeared to have been taken from the table in the sleeping car ahead. Besides this small open space, there was no room for anything else. The remainder was taken up with the boxes, crates, trunks and barrels of our household paraphernalia. A very large crate with chains coming off all corners was clipped to large iron rings in the car walls. My name was on the crate, which I found extremely interesting. Everything else just said "Belle Masion de'Chagny, Livorno, Italy".

Bouchard explained the obvious use as living quarters. "The French National guardsmen wore out their welcome with the other occupants of the rear Pullman with their constant drinking and filthy personal habits the first evening, and are therefore now sleeping here." He waved his hand about the less-than-commodious living area. "It seems to suit them fine, as they are seldom here anyway, according to Anna."

I expressed relief that neither of these gentlemen were 'home'. "I can only hope they are not besmirching the de'Chagny name with the innocent travelers ahead." I pinched Bouchard's arm in retaliation of the snide comment he made in response.

Urging me towards the door set into the floor-to-ceiling iron and wood wall at the back of this little compartment, Bouchard slid this back on its tracks. Immediately I was…lost in ecstasy, awash in the wind of Heaven, the very air of Paradise…

Horses. I smelled horses. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.

Bouchard snapped his fingers before my face. "Mademoiselle Butler!…are you unwell? You look quite odd."

Giving him a rueful roll of the eyes, I stepped past him into the rear compartment, and found myself standing before what was the remaining two-thirds of the car turned into one large box stall, with a stout rail fence set two strides from the dividing wall, wherein hay and more crates were secured.

The occupants of the remainder of the car were a tall, black bay gelding, and one very irritated and obviously unhappy grey-going-white Arabian mare. I also noted the windows were open (good) and the stall needed freshening. I immediately checked their water and hay. "Who has been taking care of them?" I asked Bouchard.

"Your man Gadreau set Thom Xavier to the task. He wondered why you had not bothered to come back and see your 'gifts'. I alone assumed that you were never told…"

"Oh...de'Chagny did say something about my gifts from Chris….oh…" Unsure, I looked at Bouchard, to find him mirroring my expression of gape-jawed guilt. Then he smiled sweetly, and patted my hand.

"Please do not be afraid to say her name: 'Christine'. She can now be generous, yes? Although, I do not understand the piano…"

"What? I am sorry, you said 'piano'?" I sucked in my breath, and putting my hand to my heart, "The very large crate, yes? That is a piano?"

Bouchard shot a look at me that I felt seemed…uneasy. "Then I will assume you play?"

"Why, yes. I have been receiving instruction for the past six years." Taking in his look of pained resignation, I patted his arm in consolation. "Do not despair, Monsieur! I would be far too embarrassed to ever play before you, so you need never suffer my ham-handed performances. Christine said that you were a musical Maestro..."

"Mademoiselle…if it is love that moves you to play, then you must play." When I made a motion of dismissal, he grabbed my hand and turned me fully to him. "I meant what I said, Aislyne; if playing the piano…if the music is important to_ you_, than you must play." His face was very fierce, and his eyes intent on mine.

"Very well, _Jerrod_. But I may wait until you are safely out of earshot!" Reluctantly he relaxed his entirely-too-serious countenance, and I turned to lean upon the rail and admire my lovely new friends.

The grey mare, having stood with ears pinned, expressing her discontent with life in general and the lack of due attention specifically, realized that I was not responding to visual cues. Stretching her neck out and pinning her ears in quite the display of marish hostility, she ruined the entire effect by wiggling her upper lip gently against my arm resting upon the rail. Releasing Bouchard's arm, I reached out with both hands to caress her jowls, scratching the itchy place beneath, and pulling her ears. She sighed and gave me her head, literally, dropping it into my arms.

"She remembers me! Oh, how lovely!" Blinking back tears of joy, I flashed a quick smile at Bouchard. "Is she not the loveliest thing?"

Bouchard seemed quite puzzled by the interaction between the strange mare and me. "Ill-tempered beast, is it not? And…this is your horse?"

"No, no, I quite stole her from the de'Chagny stable one morning. No one there can ride her because she demands…concessions. She also seems to enjoy scaring the devil out of everyone, despite the fact she is a fraud. As you noticed, yes?" Kissing the heavy eye ridge before her ear I hugged the mare's head. She remained content, finally receiving what was her just desserts.

"So you cannot ride this mare? Or you rode her? I am confused…"

"Oh, I rode her. We struck a bargain, and had a lovely morning together, covering quite a bit of de'Chagny land and both of us working up a nice lady-like glow! Did we not, my darling..." Having tolerated my cooing and kisses long enough, the mare pulled her head from my arms and moved her shoulder to the fence so that I could scratch her chronically itchy withers.

"See, she will 'allow' me to attend to her withers, and then we must move on to her belly." Frustrated with my lack of reach, I finally stepped on the second rail, swung my leg over the top and hopped down beside the mare. Bouchard made 'Ticha ticha' sounds and shook his head, as he watched me working away at her withers and shoulders with my fingers and palms.

"Butler, I cannot help but be the tiniest bit jealous of that mare!" Unconsciously he rolled his shoulders.

The mare extended her neck to express her appreciation with lip wiggling, and posturing with her head. Belly scratching soon had her giving me 'scratches' too with her top lip against my hip. My nails and fingers became grey with dirt, but I could not wish it any other way.

Inevitably, a blue-black face appeared over my shoulder, the demand plain; 'Me too.' I turned to give the tall fellow a face scratch, noting his large, intelligent eyes, long mouth (denoting a forgiving nature) and the glossy deep mahogany hips and shoulders. This was a beautiful animal.

However, the mare was now quite determined to decorate his hide with teeth marks, as she did not appreciate his diversion of any of the attention of 'her' person. I found myself scratching two horses whilst keeping clear of her snapping teeth and his shifting body.

Bouchard stood at the rail with an amused look on his face, watching me elbow the bay back while keeping the grey from attacking. I finally shot an irritated look his way, "Monsieur, if you do not come in here and give this great 'loobey a scratch or two, he is going to provoke serious attack upon himself."

Complaining bitterly about the _merde_' that would foul his boots, he joined me in the stall, using the heretofore unnoticed gate. "It is not as if I have another pair available until I can get the…hmmm…manure off."

"Monsieur," I said, pointing at the ample evidence of both horses' good nutrition, "that is the stuff of a horsewoman's dreams. Why, when I see an 'apple' pile I am elated to know there is a horse nearby."

"Someday we shall walk along the Rue du Seine'; you will be in a frenzy of ecstasy, Mademoiselle." Bouchard held out a packet, tied with ribbon, "This was fastened to the gate."

In lovely script across the front was written 'To A. Butler'. I opened and read aloud the note therein:

"_Dear Mm. Butler:  
The mare is 8 years old, a daughter out of the Abbas Pasha bloodline mare 'AP Nazzier'. Her name is AP Bint Amineh, but she has been called 'Aminta' since she arrived four years ago. She was given to Phillip D'C by a racing friend when she proved to be uninterested in winning. She also proved too much for Phillip, and has since kept the barn cats and carriage horses company and the barn boys scrambling! Our head barn boy told us that you not only rode her, but spent time chatting with and grooming her afterward, all without being savaged (as Phillip claimed she would do). Raoul believes Aminta can belong to __only__ you._

'John' is a Percheron/Thoroughbred cross, bred at Longmont Stud in Arles. He is 12 years, haut e'cole trained, and has only one vice; he adores beer! I believe Monsieur B. rides very well, and that he and John will suit. Both horses are yours, M. Butler.

My piano could no longer stay here, untouched and unappreciated. It needed to be with someone who _could not resist__ touching its keys. It is now yours._

Love,  
Christine de'Chagny

I offered Bouchard the note, which he accepted, folded carefully and slipped into a vest pocket, and returned to fussing over what was now to be his responsibility. I watched him scratching and rubbing, and doing a passable job of it, at least by John's response. It was true what they say about animals, especially the right kind of animals, soothing the disturbed mind. I certainly felt better, and from what I could see whilst gently rubbing the long muscles down the back of Aminta's…er…hindquarters, Bouchard seemed engaged and content.

We spent the next hour examining both horses; I checked feet, legs and teeth, and ran my hands over their bodies, enjoying again the firm, vital feel of horseflesh beneath my hands. We then adjourned to the interesting stack of trunks and crates that were pushed against one wall. Two very ornately stenciled tack trunks, one blonde wood, and the other ebony, each contained a very fine saddle sized appropriately for one each of the horses, and intended rider. Protective velvet bags were also within, containing matching tack.

Bouchard admired the black French Cadre Noir saddle that fit the bay, as well as the crossover-style braided bridle, cavesson, reins and matching breastcollar. I was relieved to find that no 'lady's saddle' was to be my lot. A fine oak tan English, with long, straight panels and a wide twist suited me, as well as the wide gullet would suit an Arabian's broadly sprung back. Though not as ornate as the French tack, the simple rolled leather bridle and cavesson, and diamond stitched breastcollar and reins pleased my eye.

Additional crates contained useful ointments and herbs, liniments and common medicines and nostrums for the horses; another was packed with grooming items, yet saddle blankets, wool pads, polo wraps and coolers to cover the horses after hard exercise.

A flat leather box contained the breeding papers for both horses, including a very ornate certificate of registry with the Abbas Pasha stud in Belgium for AP Bint Amineh. Finally, a bill of ownership gifted both horses to me. I sat on a crate and sniffled into my handkerchief for a few minutes, overwhelmed by the de'Chagnys' generosity.

Bouchard went back to the door and stood, leaning on the frame, reading the note left for me on the gate. Tearful women were obviously not his cup of tea.

After acting as giddy as an eight year old, then sniveling into my hanky, I began to feel foolish before Bouchard's gentlemanly reserve. Rising and putting myself back in order, I gave 'Aminta' just a bit more attention and a surreptitious kiss, and turned to the door, ready to return to the Pullman.

Bouchard stood facing out across the box stall, but apparently miles away. Thinking he must be bored into near unconsciousness, I cleared my throat and spoke, "Jerrod, we can go back now. I am sorry I spent so long fussing…" I stopped talking altogether, unsure of what I was seeing.

Bouchard appeared to be…distressed. His cheekbone blazed, and his eyes were as dark as deep water. Yet his demeanor was that of calm insouciance, his hands folded before his face betrayed no strong emotion. As I stood waiting his response, he turned away and dropped his head, leaving me only the view of the fall of his thick hair that covered his right cheek.

"You are upset, Monsieur."

"Am I? Ahhh, Madame, you _are_ perceptive. A result of long acquaintance with those who are mad as bedbugs, yes?" His voice was calm, with little note of his apparent state of emotional duress.

I chose not to dignify his jibe with a response, standing quietly, awaiting an indication of what he wished to do. Over the noise of the rails, the hissing of air through the right side of his nose was now apparent. Finally, his chin rose, leaving gracefully steepled hands to fall to his sides. I could feel his black anger directed inward, although I had no idea what had happened to trigger it.

When he finally spoke, his voice was sharp, the words clipped. "Butler, why does the Vicomtess gift you with fine horses and all this…" he waved his hand through the door at the large pile of crates and boxes. "Does she think such inducement necessary to bind you to the onerous task of tending to me, the hideous embarrassment that I am?"

"My acquaintance with Christine de'Chagny is brief, but I would say she has no such intention in mind, Bouchard." I turned to look at the horses…"She has an alarmingly generous nature for a young woman her age."

When he did not respond, I continued, "She does not see you as anything but father-figure, teacher and friend. And Bouchard, she despairs for your happiness, more than you can imagine. I wish…" No, best not to mention that which could never happen. I wished he could understand the important role he still had in her life! Albeit, not the one he would have wished… "Few women are ever given the choice between two such handsome, talented men, Monsieur. Myself, I could not live in a gilded cage, with everything I do tightly prescribed for me."

Bouchard shot a scornful look at me. "Mademoiselle do not lie to me! Do not say that you would not have chosen to be the wife of a young, handsome vicomte; to live in a fine home, have everything you desire at your request." Bouchard made a scoffing noise. "You are a woman; this is what you all want, yes?"

Crossing my arms, I said, a bit too firmly, "And you, Monsieur, do not know me nor what I want. It is lowering to think you would believe any of this," again waving my hand, "would be enough to bind me to a task I did not wish to undertake. Women, like men, are not all alike in what they want. And there are other attractions in life than rich men, fine homes, or even children. Some of us want…something far different."

Bouchard's expression was unchanged. "I am afraid I am a true innocent when it comes to affairs of the heart, Mademoiselle. But it has been my observation that money and looks carry more weight with the feminine heart than true, deep affection!"

"Monsieur that is ridiculous. A man with money and a pretty face is a good catch only to a shallow, selfish woman! Since we both know that Christine is by no stretch of the imagination such a woman, we should assume she chose the man her heart…desired…"

I did not want to talk about this now. I felt myself fidget with discomfort, knowing what I was saying was as just as hurtful to him as his distorted beliefs. Bouchard, however turned to look at me, his expression as set and cold as granite.

"Then you are saying that she made the choice based upon what 'her heart desires', which, _I say_ are money, title and de'Chagny's agreeable appearance. I am happy for the Vicomtess. Indeed, if such a life was what she wanted, she is exactly where she belongs."

I scowled into his hard face, my own cheeks becoming warmer with growing irritation. "I _know_ the Vicomte is a fine man, who loves Christine, and I saw no reason to believe she does not love him with honest devotion. I cannot help but be happy for them, Monsieur! It is a love match, not a marriage of convenience, and such things are rare." It was only the truth, after all.

We glared at one another for several moments, wherein I grunted and turned again to face the horses. Aminta and John both stood watching us, contentedly turning hay piles into 'apple' piles. Fiercely I chided myself for allowing Bouchard's feelings to drive mine. I needed distance…I needed control…I needed…

The train wheel's thumping progress provided a much less irritating…though in no way soothing…sense of distraction. I gripped the rail before me and watched the mare as she alternately pinned her ears at John, and flicked them forward in interest to me. She was a minx, indeed.

Bouchard spoke softly and turning I saw his eyes were closed, his arms wrapped about himself. "But what of the music. Does she sing? If her piano is that which is crated, she surely does not play." He looked at me, and I felt my own eyes burn at the infinite sorrow reflected in his face. Clearing his throat, he asked me, "Mademoiselle, does she still sing?"

I opened my mouth and the words were said before I could recall them, "Bouchard, I believe she is too anxious and engaged with the imminent birth of her first child to think much of singing…" No sooner the last words left my mouth than Bouchard's face went absolutely bloodless, his eyes wide with shock. I watched in horror as his knees began to buckle, tipping him back so that he fell, half standing, against the wall behind him. He clutched his chest, grimacing.

I rushed to him, wrapping my arms about his chest, feeling tremors course through his thin frame. I was sick with the realization he had not known of Christine's condition …how could he have known? I had possibly just killed him by blurting out the fact of Christine's pregnancy. Foolish tears filled my eyes…

His breathing was labored, whistling through his nose and lips, and he finally leaned against me, to gasp upon my shoulder. Placing my hand inside his vest I felt his heart pounding behind his breastbone, strong but erratic. I found myself rubbing his chest, murmuring soothing words in Gaelic…"thu thu cara, ciùin sibh …'" After a considerable time his breathing eased, and his heart quieted.

He pushed himself fully back to his feet, but one arm still weighed heavily upon my shoulder and back. I kept both arms about him, until he was able to stand steady, then stepped back to give him space, yet keeping him supported under one arm. Apologizing profusely, I rattled on mindlessly, "Bouchard, oh…Jerrod! I am so sorry."

His eyes rolled then fastened upon my face, and he looked…old and tired. His lips moved, and the broken words, "Yes! You are sorry, I have no doubt!…" rasped from his lips. Tears then filled and overflowed his eyes, and chased down both cheeks. Softly he said "Christine is to have a child…" and bent his head. At his slightest pull, I released him completely, and turned my face aside, as much to hide how affected I was as to give him privacy to recover his composure. Unobtrusively I kept my hand on his upper arm, to be sensible to any movement that might denote another collapse.

For several minutes, we stayed thus, and as I berated myself for my lack of sensitivity, I worked to contain my panic at Bouchard's physical state. Whatever type of episode he had just suffered, it had displayed terrifying physical symptoms. His heartbeat had been frighteningly irregular.

That he was thin, I had been aware. Having put my hand upon his chest, I was now alarmed. Every rib had been articulate; the pectorali major and minor were discernable but certainly atrophied due to his year of privation while in the Rois. I had stifled the urge to sweep my hand up and along the middle of his chest to better judge his body condition.

I felt his hand gently clasp my arm, turning me to face him. His face was composed, but his voice was hoarse with strong feeling. "Mademoiselle, I am sincere when I say that I am very happy for…for Christine if this is truly what she wished. A home, her Vicomte, and children. A child!" He swiped quickly at new tears. "This is so much more than I could have ever given her."

"Perhaps her choice was…for the best." His eyes were haunted, the color muted and dull.

Neither of us have ever had much use for the physical comfort afforded by being held and comforted, yet I pulled Bouchard into my arms and embraced him anyway. He was rigid at first, and made no move to return my embrace, but eventually his face fell upon my shoulder. As tremors of emotion coursed through his body, his hands clung to me, and thus he stayed in my arms, silently releasing grief and anger, and maybe other things as well. I could not stop from rubbing his back and patting his hair, and swaying with him, as one would a child. Words of Gaelic and English…to soothe and comfort him…poured from my lips, even though I struggled to be silent. The breadth of his chest and size of the man was belied by the gentle frail weight of him, leaned against and into me.

Eventually, he composed himself and we broke apart, both of us abashed by the new intimacy we had shared. The shoulder of my blouse was soaked with his tears, something that did not escape his notice, and he pulled my shawl over it to ward off the chill, murmuring an apology. There was color back in his face, and he looked the slightest bit puzzled as we exchanged shy glances.

"I believe I am in need of a strong drink, Mademoiselle Butler. Is this allowed?" His grin was but a shadow of the usual lopsided heartbreaker.

"Monsieur Bouchard, I too feel the need. I would think as long as we both practice some moderation, it could be considered purely medicinal. I still have the bottle of elderly Scots whisky in my first aid kit. Would you join me in a glass?"

His eyes, oh Lord, his eyes… I wanted to look away, close mine, to keep from keening in reflective sympathy. How I kept my face from dissolving into mush I will never know.

"_To be loved like this…to inspire such devotion…will never happen…to you_." I heard the demon inside me whisper… And saw its echo in his eyes...

"It would be my pleasure. But, first, Mademoiselle…perhaps you need to…" Bouchard's hand came up and touched my face; his fingers came away wet from the tears I was unaware still ran down my own face.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Author's Note:**

**Apologizing** for the gap in time…I have been overworked to the point where I actually got SICK…had cold/flu all weekend. I'm hoping to get this story moving, now.

Chapter Seventeen

To state the developing relationship between Governess Butler and I, her demon charge, is volatile, is to understate to an immoral degree. I cannot tell if I am to be her savior or assassin from one minute to the next.

For me, wretched as my life has been, she exhibits all the compassion of a fence post, and spends entirely too much time cataloging and analyzing my most insignificant twitch. Yet she allows me to weep like a girl child and holds me in her arms, patting my back, and crooning 'There, there, my sweet...' in Gaelic.

She has the subtlety of an axe, the elegance of a rag picker, yet is as unassumingly graceful as only long-legged women can be.

She is entirely too practical and pragmatic for my taste. It is hard work angering her to the interesting point, but I most enjoy the fact that she will stay and argue until she reaches that point instead of running off in tears.

Thinking the 'best' of people will someday get her killed. I pray it will not be by my hand.

In error, I have given Mademoiselle Butler the impression that there is a salvageable human being within this sorry carcass, and she has now made me responsible for the rescue. She would have me 'parent' myself...whatever the devil that means. My pitiful bleats of ignorance fall unacknowledged upon her deaf, insensitive ears. Can she not see I am a man who has never known parenting beyond the malignant neglect of my mother and the absence entire of my father?

Yet she says "You know right from wrong. There is a point between that which is acceptable and that which is criminal, insane, or harmful to you or anyone else. You know quite well where the point stands." The woman is actually tall enough to look down her nose at me; with hands on her hips, eyes boring holes through mine, I am thus browbeaten into compliance.

I detest the fact that she is right. Several times in the past two days, I have struggled to stop myself from doing that which would not only cross, but obliterate, that point. From doing that which I know is counter to proper, gentlemanly and/or civilized social behavior. Actually, something amusingly devious or magnificently destructive and utterly deserved by the recipient. I could spend some time expounding on the individuals and the interesting contretemps they could be experiencing...yet, to what end?

However, I do have one situation that is plaguing me terribly. I am, after all, but a man, and subject to the urges of the flesh... My tormentor is a merciless tease beyond any I have ever…hmmm…I have _never_ experienced. Anna Gadreau is unrivaled in her skill for keeping me in a constant state of partial arousal, without a touch. I begin to feel dangerously...impulsive after a few minutes of her peepshow antics. Twice my sleep has been sundered by the indignity of night emissions, like some randy pubescent boy…

Ah, dear me.

I have sadly wandered from the original point of my thoughts. A cigar and another tot of Butler's wonderfully smoky whisky would set me to rights, I wager. Both are off limits while I sit here in the forward Pullman, watching Anna Gadreau watch me while evading her husband's hawk-like scrutiny. Many years as a master of magic and associated covert arts had taught me how to see the world in 360 degrees. It has proven handy more than once…

I return to my sketch, having commandeered one of Butler's new sketchbooks and a goodly number of her best pencils and charcoals. No doubt, she will squawk loudly when she discovers the theft.

In all of this is the reality that I am now to learn to live as one of my species. Yet how am I to learn to embrace a world that for so long considered me a loathsome thing, a murderous fiend, a thing with which to frighten children?

_'The Phantom is dead; I am a man and I live.' _

Sigh. There are times when even the frequent and continuous recitation of this does little to curb the dark urges within. Truly, the Phantom is dead; he lost his head to the irresistible mistress of French Justice, Mademoiselle Guillotine, three mornings past. The fact that air still whistles through the irksome defects in my nose tells me I am, indubitably, alive.

And then she said, _"Parents also teach us we are lovable, and they must teach us how to love in return…" _

'Teach us we are loveable, teach us how to love in return.' Does she know how often she reduces me to tears with her homilies on the canon of life? Yes, I nearly wept when she said this, for indeed, this seems to be the heart of the matter for me. Would I have loved differently thinking I was that which _could_ be loved? Would I have loved differently if I had known how to do so…without use of coercion and mind tricks, mirrors and lights, and especially without losing my mind?

_Did I not love Christine?_

Looking back, although it is painful, I realize I attempted to mold Christine from the earliest years of our relationship to be MINE, without regard to what role she would ultimately play: companion, friend, daughter or lover. I only wished to have _someone_ who could fill the empty places in my life. I showered her with my love, provided her with comfort and care, and the beautiful things young ladies want, hoping it would be enough to woo her innocent heart forever into _my_keeping.

I tried to isolate her from the world, thinking to do so was to best protect her, to shield her from the ruinous attentions of men and their evil ways, and the certainty of heartbreak by an unloving humanity!

I gave her my music, taught her to use the wondrous gift of her voice, and cushioned her from the knocks of poverty and want. I soothed her broken child's heart, and gave her the magic of an Angel of Music. Never had I thought it would become so important or quite so real for her; I never understood I had unwittingly become both supernatural and her surrogate father.

_I am a fool, indeed!_

How can one guide and nurture a child in so many ways without being...a parent? Did I not realize that in my selfish and shortsighted way I had become Christine's father? In all the reading I did to help me deal with her fits and megrims, and all the changes in her body; the books regarding women's psychology, and the education of children: was not the message clear? '_To aid the parent...'_

And what parent has not known the pain and frustration of having parental hopes and expectations thrown back in their faces...as their child chooses to follow their own heart.

And so it happened…as sexual lust sharpened my madness; as I smacked my lips at the dainty morsel I thought I had created….that the _authentic_ Christine slipped outside my notice. How could I say I loved her, when in a most father-like fashion, I neglected to know her?

Did she not prove to be more than I could have ever imagined, so much more than I ever credited her to be. Not frail, timid, innocent or submissive; and _certainly_ not a spiritless pawn without a mind of her own. I did not recognize the Christine who offered herself to me as sacrifice to my base lusts in order to save the life of the boy she loved.

That fine, heroic creature, a vision in tulle and satin, her eyes wide with horror of the madman who wore the face of her Angel…

…I now actually cringe in memory, pretending to have merely shifted in the chair to anyone watching. I know I am beginning to breathe…audibly. I close my eyes as my thoughts rush inexorably forward; I am helpless to stop....

_And shall we not think of 'the kiss'?_ Oh, that talisman to my utter debasement of all I touch! I burn in shame, even as I exult in my girl's dauntless courage. She kissed me as a woman kisses a man, kissed me as only lovers should kiss! I cannot but wonder that it did not break her heart and mind utterly into a million pieces.

_As it surely did mine_.

For it was THEN…too late!…too late!…I realized I had nearly demanded the unthinkable from a young woman who thought of me as…_a trusted friend_…_her teacher…her confidant…her Angel....her father_…but _never_ as the man who would demand vile use of her body….

Uhhhhhhhh… I feel as if I could be sick. I close and drop the sketchbook; the pencils and charcoals fall from my hands to the carpet. I slip down into the chair and cover my face with my charcoal-smudged hands.

For the child she was, and all the honest, honorable love I devoted to her… outside of the ridiculous madness that seized me upon her 15th year…I finally realized my happiness must be that she was free to go to where her heart belonged…with the boy. I let her go...let _them_ go. I wanted to die, then, for all I had put her through. I hated myself.

I still hate myself. And now I find Christine has given up her music. Whether because of the child, or because of me; _I must know__! _

I have read her note at least twenty times; I pull it from my vest pocket yet again, smoothing the folds, running my fingers over the words that lace across the creamy fine vellum. It is her hand that held this paper, her rounded handwriting that covers it. I believe I have seen her writing a thousand times as it has evolved from the childish block letters to the lovely, perfect loops and swirls, above and below, sweeping across the paper, a ballet in ink.

_It is what the note says that now slowly consumes my peace_. What I had feared most has come to pass; Christine has given up music. She will not touch the keys on the piano; hence she sends it away. How long did I tutor her on her technique; how many scales did we play together, teaching her reach and touch and timing and together finding the beautiful pure passion that the keyboard would express!

What of her father's dream, that which became my dream also: to hear her sing. What now of that astonishing instrument of heartbreaking beauty that is Christine's voice? Will it never now bring life and glory to the composer's humble notes?

Oh, but the world will become an infinitely darker place!

Anna is staring at me openly; the increasing noise of my breathing gives her excuse. No doubt my odd behavior has drawn more than just her attention. I do not care.

I need to close my eyes, as I feel my right eye drying from the air rushing out of the uppermost hole. This has always been a problem; that and the tag of skin that warps the bottom eyelid, keeps me in a state of constant pain some days.

I feel Butler's hand upon my shoulder and I am enveloped in the scent of rosewater, a gentle tether in a whirling vortex of pain and madness and grief, and she murmurs in my ear, "We will go someplace quiet. Hush now, '_aingeal._" I start, just a bit, at the use of the Gaelic word for 'angel'…

I am not surprised when she is able to lie quite convincingly before the Gadreaus, "Oh, Bouchard! Your asthma is not helped one whit by all the cigar smoking you have been doing, Monsieur!" I feel Dietre's large strong hand under my left arm, and Butler's under my right and I am hoisted quite effortlessly to my feet, and carted off to Butler's bed. Soon enough I find myself lying upon her coverlet, boots pulled and quilt tucked about me, pillows piled behind my head and shoulders, and with a glass of whisky to my lips.

"Drink this," she says. I shoot a look at Dietre'…and smirk. He rolls his eyes and walks away to the back, bound for the rear Pullman. "Do not let him fool you, Mademoiselle!" he calls out before opening the door, "He is crazy…as a fox!"

***************

"Now, talk to me, Jerrod, or I will give you not one more sip of this fine whisky." I swirled the near-full glass about under my nose and took a sip. Lovely stuff.

"Madame, you are a heartless jade. To treat a suffering man so…" Bouchard eyed the glass with ill-concealed covetousness.

I set the glass down with a snap upon a shelf in the headwall to my sleeping alcove. Unless we hit a wicked big bump, it would be secure. "Yes, well, these sudden episodes are frightening me, Bouchard. And stop calling me 'Madame'. I have never been leg-shackled."

Bouchard's look of incomprehension stalled me for the slightest moment, upon which he closed his eyes and smiled. "If you did not get that look of…sucking upon something not fully ripe, Butler, I would have lost interest in calling you that long ago."

"Aye, well, you may call me…Miss, or Miss Butler."

"I will call you what damned well suits me at the moment! Butler."

I was, scandalously enough, sitting on the side of my bed; yes, the same that Bouchard was lying upon. I had my legs angled towards the head, so that I could comfortably lean towards him. I furthermore had one leg and knee up beneath me.

Yes, I should have been sitting in a chair; better yet, in a chair across the room, with chaperone in attendance. Since Anna Gadreau was the only other female in our party, I do not believe I had much choice. Ruminations on the possible repercussions of having Anna as my chaperone were rudely interrupted by Bouchard's hand falling upon my thigh.

"I need you to… to investigate for me, Butler.

I looked at his face wide-eyed, overtly at his hand, and then again his face. He made much of removing the offending limb from my thigh, saying "I know there is she who would be thrilled at my hand on her…mphmn…"

Momentarily laying several hard fingers upon his lips, I commanded, "Do not go there, Bouchard. Your problems will only multiply beyond your enfeebled imagination."

"Dammit, Butler, I am too old to be this…stifled!" I could not stop the smirk that spread across my face..._Bouchard was whining_. "You cannot imagine how frustrated a man gets when…"

I immediately interrupted him, clapping one of my hands over his mouth, and repeating "No, no nononononono!" until he stopped talking. Irritated, he swept my hand away from his face, and glared…albeit, silently…

I patted his chest, saying "There is a time and place to deal with this issue for you, Monsieur. Now it is not! Perhaps when we have arrived in Tuscany....when you have acquired a social life, dealt with so many other problems _first_... I cannot imagine why you believe this is suitable to discuss with me! Why…why I am…"

"MADAME, my time is too short to waste what is left on the social niceties! I am not a young man with all the time in the world to deal with...this problem! Surely, as an unmarried older…maiden woman, you understand what I mean by…frustration?"

I do not believe I have ever experienced that much blood and heat suffusing my face; no doubt my outsized ears were incandescent. Adding insult to mine own injury was the humiliating titter that exited my sickly smiling lips.

I fear Bouchard would have collapsed had he not already been supine upon the bed. His laughter was in a somewhat higher octave than usual for his more polite expressions of amusement. If I laughed also, it was at the spectacle of him holding his still-bruised ribs, gingerly rolling side to side, face crimson and girlish laughter convulsing his form. I found myself watching him for signs of physical distress, however.

How thankful I was that the Gadreaus had adjourned to the rear Pullman to play whist with Dietre and Thom.

He subsided after a few minutes, and I reminded him of his request. Nearly immediately, his face sobered, and he patted my hand. "You are a good girl, Aislyne. Rather stuffy and plain, but you do very well as my governess."

I am thankful that I was able to keep my expression clear of the feelings that washed over me at his words. I reminded myself this man was no different from any other; his admitted purpose and pursuit of Anna Gadreau proved my point. No doubt had I been somewhat more…flashy to the eye, 'less bone and more meat', as my father would put it, I would never have been able to do the job I do. Scant comfort at the moment.

I felt again the not-so-subtle dismissal by the young men whom I met while 18 years and still living in London. I was raising four siblings and rack thin with worry and hard work. Attending one of the public dances with several co-workers and nurses, I had spent the evening being frankly ignored. I heard the words of one of the mammas when she thought I was not in earshot, "A fat Irish face, ears like a cow, atop a beanpole body...the gel' is as ugly as any mangy stray! Miss Butler had best 'ang onto that job as its certain no man wants 'er and 'er lot at 'ome!"

I also remember I had stood from the chair where I had been 'hidden', walked directly to the table and smiled in the woman's eyes. I uttered not a word, merely fetched my own arrack punch, turned and left, but her face had never recovered its façade of supercilious distain. Her tall, hideously shy son had asked me to dance earlier, only to be set upon by his momma immediately thereafter...

I then realized that I had totally missed whatever Bouchard had said while lost in painful reverie...

He pouted when I asked him to repeat whatever he had asked. "You were not listening to me, were you?"

For one moment Bouchard was but another male who had overlooked me for the petite and fleshy charms of the Annas and Margarets and Susannas; young women who frequently came to me later to bemoan their ruinous associations with men.

I smiled into Bouchard's bewildered grimace and said, "No, I was not. I do apologize. You merely brought to mind a…a moment from the past…"

Bouchard grew still, and his gaze became intent upon my face. I was reminded this man was very attuned to those around him, no matter how insensitive he acted. "Butler, I just felt a door close right in my face. Yes, I see it now, clearly. I _have_ said something to upset you."

Flustered, I turned away, "I am sure you need not watch every word with _me_, Bouchard! You have not done so to date and I have survived." I gritted my teeth when his hand plucked at my sleeve to turn me back to him.

I was still sitting on the bed. Although it was not by any means roomy, there had been at least a foot of open, unoccupied quilt between us; suddenly he was right there behind me, his body crowding mine. Startled I attempted to exit the bed.

Instead I found myself tipped backward, and over his body, then with Bouchard lying across my chest. Even as I fought to free myself, he threw one leg across both of mine and pinned my hands above my head.

I stilled instantly, long years of experience telling me to save my energy for the moment when it would do some good. It would not at this time; he had me nicely pinned beneath him.

"Bouchard, what are you doing?"

"Butler, I do not appreciate being treated like a demented old fossil. You do not have to just…take what I say, in the name of _civility_. Slap me when I say something incredibly stupid. You deserve that respect!"

"Yes, well, I will remember to do that, Bouchard, just as soon as you free my hands. Now, please allow me to….." His free hand landed next to my face, his thumb hooked my jaw.

"What did I say? Was it the remarks about Anna…no, wait that was before…" He concentrated on my nose, and I squirmed a bit. I hated my nose, and now he was perhaps six inches from it, studying it intently. He poked the tip, then petted it with one finger. Fiercely I resisted watching, knowing it would cross my eyes…and he was expecting just that.

"I know I said something right after you laughed at me…you reminded me that I had wanted you to…to do…something…" His forehead knotted in thought, while he looked over my left ear, gently tipping my head to the side enough that he could run his finger lightly around the rim. I shuddered with a sensation I could not name, and closed my eyes in self defense. I knew he would be staring at me to see the effect.

"Open your eyes, Aislyne."

I did not know my voice; it was thick and quivery. "No. Go away, you...you alleycat! You want merely to toy with me, like a captured mouse. Yes, I may be _plain_ and _stuffy_, and…and a _frustrated old maid_, but I will not be treated like this! Get… Off…!" I attempted to toss him off my chest by sheer superior muscle, hissing "If you were any kind of man you would let me up to defend myself!"

I subsided, hot tears of rage threatening to destroy my already brittle veneer of calm control. Muscle was proving insufficient against dead weight and sheer size.

Bouchard's expression grew more arrogant; he grinned, fever-eyed with excitement into my face. "If I were _any_ kind of man?" The eyebrow flew to his hairline, while the corners of his mouth bent down. "How about a coward? The idea of letting you free right now does not appeal to me _at all_. You are violent Madame, and I…I am frightened!"

I hissed wordlessly at his spurious terror. It seemed only to encourage him…

"Perhaps I am but a _weakling_…a _pitifully_ haggard old rue who near _swoons_ at the first sign of your physical superiority!" He snapped his teeth at my nose. "Why, you could_ kill _me with your eyes, Miss Butler! Ayeee!"

He actually laughed into my face, so enamored of his own wit! I stared into his eyes, willing him to stop…ready to _beg him to stop_…!

"But no…I am none of these, am I, my dear Miss Butler? I am a defiler…a rake, of the vilest stripe. I will debauch…"

That was enough. I filled my lungs and screamed, "**BOUCHARD****! **You will need to let me up eventually! The longer I lay here, the **ANGRIER** I will get! **LET ME UP**!"

I could only pray it would be Dietre or Thom who heard and came to my rescue. Anyone but Anna and Emanuel. Or…_horrors_…Plourde and Davies….

Bouchard squinted in discomfort, but instead of muffling my mouth, he stroked my cheek, gently, softly… The wild, manic looked seemed to drain from his face. "Mademoiselle, please look at me." That beautiful voice, warm and intimate…I could do nothing but look to its source.

Like sunlit pools, the color of his eyes; I could swim in them, just so. His hair fell against my face as he bent and kissed my lips, brushing his against mine, then nibbling at them. He smelled of whisky, with the slightest woodsy hint of tobacco. I could feel my lips tremble and my chin rise to meet him…I was lost in the urge to kiss him back…yet I kept my mouth still…my expression distant…

Pulling away, he moved his thumb along my bottom lip, growling, "I command you to _never_ kiss Abrigaun again!"

I was having problems breathing. Perhaps having Bouchard in the middle of me was causing that...but I doubted it. His words then registered like the drop of a hobnailed boot. His eyes narrowed and darkened; the spell was broken, the prince returned to a frog.

Breathless I hissed, "Abrigaun kissed _me_, Bouchard. I did _not_ kiss him." I sounded…far away. My head was full of emptiness…

"Hair-splitting is useless, Madame. It matters not who started it, I certainly saw you stay for the finish!" Bouchard's lips canted into a sneer, and I was staring closely into the right eye only, red-rimmed and obviously painful. "Why, you kissed him before an entire carload of onlookers, like some…some…camp follower!" With a dramatic display of disgust, Bouchard pushed himself off me and the bed in one elegant move.

I felt rage bloom behind my eyes, firing the crepe paper memories of one tender moment to smoking ash. Jackknifing my body to an upright position, I inelegantly rolled myself off the bed to my feet. Yanking at my blouse, pulled from the band of my skirt by the imprisonment of my arms, I glared at my tormentor. "Dammit, Bouchard, Abrigaun kissed ME, I did not kiss him. The difference is…considerable!"

"No doubt! I see you still have the grace to blush in shame of your behavior! You offered the man no resistance at all!"

"No doubt…you are hoping the same from my married housekeeper!"

Grabbing the collar of my blouse in one hand, Bouchard placed the tip of the index finger of the other beneath my chin, and with a toothy-sweet smile, murmured "Why, Madame Butler, you are jealous? Hmmm?"

Gritting my teeth to stop from biting it, I grabbed the offending digit and gave it a painful twist, then shoved and slapped his hand from the collar of my hopelessly battered blouse. I leaned into his now-unsmiling face, hissing, "Jerrod do not become so full of yourself that you fail to see that **MADAME Gadreau** is married to a _very jealous man!_"

Shaking the kinks out of his finger, he smirked nastily. "Oh, ho. How hypocritical, MADEMOISELLE! I saw your face after that kiss…you are an amoral jade!"

"I will not debate my virtue with you, Bouchard. However, Monty's wife is not hovering ten feet away packing a very large caliber pistol in her…skirts!"

Tipping his head, rolling his eyes skyward, he appeared to give this serious thought. His next words proved otherwise. "I am not afraid of jealous husbands or large pistols; I am doing nothing that I need be ashamed of. Anna just finds me…interesting…to talk to. Whatever else she wants, well...you must admit it can be flattering, especially as **all** she knows about me is that my face is…is _imperfect_...

The look on his face stopped me cold. It was one of utter resignation. I gathered tight control of my mouth…and my emotions, even as he fought to assume the inscrutable expression that worked so well for him. Her attention…he merely wanted her attention…

I quietly outstretched my hand to him, deciding to appeal to his common sense, to reason…to self-preservation, saying, "Jerrod, I wish you to think… Do you not see that Anna's interest, whatever her reason, can easily be misunderstood by Emanuel? I do not wish anything to happen to..."

His face cold, he loudly interrupted, "Mademoiselle Butler, if he chooses to shoot me for talking…only talking!…with his wife, I do hope he is a damned good shot!" He thumped himself over the heart, and turned his attention to the view out the window.

So much for expression of tender concern! Feeling quite rebuffed, I firmed my chin and stated, "Now see here, Bouchard, if you want to _kill_ yourself, do it with brandy and Laudanum once we get to Tuscany. I do not want to go through the horror of having you gunned down before my eyes."

His features twisted, and he rounded on me, right side foremost. "Yes, by all means, I should eschew discomfiting you by bleeding to death in these close quarters. Blood is _so_ difficult to remove from clothing, yes?" He sneered, saying, "Madame, you are a heartless, bitter woman!"

I bit my lips, now beyond hurt. I knew my voice was breaking badly from the lump around which I was speaking. "Better heartless than a…witlessly randy old fool dying from a bullet through the belly!" Collapsing to sit upon the bed, I wondered what had precipitated this morass of hard feelings between us. Kissing Abrigaun? Why would that bother him if I were just a 'dry, skinny, stuffy…'. And why had he not yet stomped off in disgust? Surely we had nothing further to say to each other?

Yet he stood, now facing me, and cleared his throat several times. It was readily appearant we both were thoroughly distressed…my eyes were burning from tears held in check, and I could see that he too was having problems with his eyes. Suddenly he turned smartly upon his heel, placing his back to me, which was "Fine with me!" I growled to his back. When he did begin to speak, it was so softly I had to concentrate to hear clearly over the noise of the rolling wheels beneath us.

"Mademoiselle, I appreciate your concern…I am sincere when I say that. I realize Anna Gadreau's interest in me is less than honorable, and I should dissuade her from continuing to seek me out."

Bouchard's head fell back upon his shoulders, and his right hand raised to cover that side of his face. "I am well aware of the effect my…difference from other men has on certain women. Are you aware of that…phenomenon?"

I shook my head, then croaked, 'No…" nearly speechless with the sudden twist to our disagreement.

Bouchard turned back to me, unsmiling, and pushing his hair completely off his cheek, dropped his hand. I was thus drawn to look at the now uncovered right side of his face. With some surprise I realized…it did not even register with me as being anything but …Bouchard.

I again shook my head to his question, "No. No, I have never…"

He reached for my left hand then, and pulling me up from the bed, placed it upon his right cheek, my palm resting below the wrecked cheekbone, my fingertips brushing his feathery sideburn and thick, warm ear. He held my wrist, trapping my hand. His expression was enigmatic.

"While incarcerated I was many times visited by women…some of them very prominent, and well-connected women. They were fascinated with my…face, as well as my history, and wished to…how do I put this delicately?" His cheekbone blushed red, and his eyes fell from mine.

I stepped closer, and swept his ruined cheek with my thumb, soothing him, wondering what he had expected me to do…_yank my hand away_?

He continued, "These woman offered me their bodies. They wished to have sexual relations with me, right there in my little cell on the shabby malodorous pallet that was my bed for fourteen months. Two offered to do so until they were pregnant so they might carry my offspring."

I felt my eyes widen, and jaw sag, my hand stilled on his cheek. I stared into his eyes, unsure what he was telling me…sickened…

"One woman came to see me every day for many weeks. She would display herself to me…that which she could show through the door's grill, anyway." He shook his head, chuckling, "The guards enjoyed the show even if I did not. She was convinced it was her destiny to…'sleep with a monster'...her words, Aislyne." Bouchard's smile was hollow of humor. "I was her monster."

I dropped my eyes and pulled my hand away, gently. He let it go without restraint.

"And did you, Bouchard? Did you…accommodate any of these women?" I was as astonished to hear the words come from my mouth as Bouchard was that I would ask.

His look of surprise changed to a rueful grin, saying "I stand before you, Butler, an innocent. I have never experienced the joys of the flesh, in all my forty-four years on this earth. The monster remains virgin, untouched by a lover's hands." He bowed, hand laid upon his breast.

I nearly raised an eyebrow at his claim, but what man would willingly admit to being a maiden, at an advanced age? It would smack of lacking manliness or virility, or so I had always heard. I could not agree, of course; Bouchard was definitely manly enough. "They hardly offered you 'love' Bouchard."

He acknowledged that with a nod.

And I suppose you are telling me that Anna Gadreau's attraction to you is…thus?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps she, too, wants to mate with a monster. She is greatly desirous of getting her hands upon my face. I have not allowed her to do so, preferring to keep our interaction to…talking, and singing." Bouchard's left cheekbone grew pink again. "I do enjoy singing with her…"

I had to physically bite my lip to keep from swearing; mentally nail my feet to the floor to keep from hunting Anna Gadreau down and shooting her like the sick cur bitch she was. Naturally, I was hoping none of this showed in my face.

I again sat on the bed, weak-kneed with everything Bouchard had told me, and Bouchard joined me, his hands flat on his bony knees, whilst I was more in the hand-wringing mode. I had no idea what to say.

"Mademoiselle Aislyne, I tell you all of this in strict confidence. Allowing Anna Gadreau to flirt does no real harm. I will practice much more care in future, keeping in mind all we have said here. I promise you I have no intention of giving myself to her, or any woman who cannot offer me…something more."

I could not help but smile at these words…my own not two days past. I too have held out all these years for…something more. Obviously, he had been waiting for some few years longer than I…but not by much.

Our eyes met, and we exchanged open smiles, rich with a new understanding.

A sudden thought having occurred to me, and I reached for the glass of whisky, still where I had put it, seemingly hours ago. I put half of it down neatly in one gulp, eyes burning and watering nicely. I handed the half-full glass to Bouchard. "_Slàinte Mhath_"

He held up the glass, and nodded to me, saying, "To Maidens!"


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**Is everyone enjoying this story? **I am excited and motivated by the wonderful feedback I am given, and I thank those who do so most sincerely. Please don't be shy to let me know how my vision and version strikes you! Naturally, I tend to be just as encouraged by the number of visitors.

This is a long chapter…hence the length of time since I posted last…

**Chapter Eighteen**

March 31, 1883

All but the two French National guardsmen and Emanuel Gadreau were seated in the front car. Anna and I were sitting at table, she mending one of her husband's shirts, and I feigning interest in a Bronte' novel. Bouchard, Chanson and Xavier were perusing dated newspapers, and three months of Le Temps, La Gazette, l'Epogue and various other rags were spread about them on the chaise, chair arms, and floor. Every once in a while, Bouchard or Chanson would read in French some diverting tidbit, and discuss it with varying degrees of accord or dissent. Watching them was extremely entertaining; some items merited heated debate, and Frenchmen are so passionate! I made little headway with "Villette'. Thus was a most agreeable early afternoon spent.

An obsequious gentleman in the long black coat of the train conductor knocked on the Pullman's front 'tween door and announced that Lyon, France was but one hour ahead, with arrival expected at 5:20 this afternoon. No one seemed to feel the need to jump up and prepare for the arrival. Anna, however, went in search of Emanuel and to make arrangements for our dinner.

Bouchard was currently pouring over a copy of Le Monde Illustré, with its near photographic artists' illustrations of current events. Our last stop had given him the opportunity to bribe the Chief Engineer of his new copy of the Illustré, and I spent entirely too much time trying to look at it over Bouchard's shoulder. I could not read it as it was in French; I merely wished to get a good gander at the illustrations, which were excellent, however much I might sniff at the subject matter.

On the front page was a lifelike representation of the new French Minister of Education, Jules Ferry, who called for education for the masses…an unpopular ideal to the captains of industry and financial nobility of Europe.

And obviously a sentiment shared by the editorial staff of the Illustré.

Drawn standing beside Minister Ferry was a housemaid, shown reading a heavy book, "Commentarii linguae Graecae" by Guillaume Budé, dusting in an inattentive and desultory manner. Over his shoulder, one of the houseboys was scribbling Bernoulli mathematical formulae with his fingers on an apparently neglected dirty window. The message was clear; education made for unsatisfactory servants.

Bouchard was reading of the final hours of Erik de'Carpentier, the notorious 'Opera Ghost" of the Opera Populaire, as reported by the 'Humble Public Servant' who brought him his last meal. Illustrations were included of the man, (I was now blatantly leaning over Bouchard's shoulder) with the grossest hints at the purported malformity of his face.

The subtext of the headline read: 'La Source D'Anonymus Indique Tous ! "Un Cadavre Vivant Trop Affreux Pour Imaginer" : Fou de Rue de Opera Eats Son Dernier Repas.' ("Anonymous Source Tells All! "A Living Corpse Too Hideous To Imagine: Madman of Rue de Opera Eats His Last Meal!")

A standing figure was depicted as feeding himself with his spidery hands, long, crooked fangs displayed in an apparently lipless and over-wide mouth. His noseless state was apparent, his hair shown as grizzled tufts about the very top of his head, and one each sticking straight out below his ears. He was dressed in formal black with a huge cloak outswept behind his stretched form. A crumpled opera mask was propped against his oversized shoe. The overall effect was that of a horribly deformed visage atop an over-thin, over-tall frame, who dressed like a gentleman, yet displayed the table manners of an ill-bred hooligan.

What total hogwash!

The final indignity was the drawing of a rather dramatically soulful young woman, big-eyed and well endowed in too many highly visible ways, figuratively speaking. She held one hand to the side of her face, blocking her view of Madame Guillotine, and the other thrust out in repudiation of the kneeling cowled figure in the background, whose arms were lifted to her in supplication. The caption was "One Last Plea For Her Love!"

I wondered if the chorus singer really did attend the beheading.

Bouchard was humming and chuckling whilst he looked at all this, and in fact, seemed quite entertained. I gently turned back one corner of the opposite page that he was reading to see what was featured next. I found "African Killer Goes To America: Barnham's Newest Performer Threatens Public Safety". Evidently P.T. Barnham had purchased an new pachyderm for his circus by the illustration: a large, angry _Loxodonta africana_ industriously crushing and tossing keepers about like jackstraws, large ears aflare.

There was also 'Thomas Edison Declares Himself God! "Let there be light" The Man Says, Throwing The Switch To Electrify Entire American City!' Now that I would like to read…electric lights for an entire city! The life-like drawing showed Edison ala Michangelo's 'Creation of the Stars, Moon and Planets' dressed (in)appropriately with naked angels attendant. His hand was extended to an electric bar switch….such piffle!

"What utter tripe, Bouchard. This is not a gazette, it is a gutter rag. I hope you did not waste overmuch buying it."

He stopped humming, and although I was over his right shoulder, he turned to the left. "Butler, as an artist, you must agree that the illustrations are remarkable. Imagine doing this for a living! _You_ could, you know."

Although I felt myself go pink with pleasure at the implied compliment, I harrumphed, "I would not! These representations…that one" I pointed to the one of de'Carpentier eating…"by many accounts, the Phantom was very much a gentleman. Although…I admit that I can read only a few words here and there…"

"Then come sit beside me on yonder chaise and I will read this to you. I believe you would find it quite diverting." He moved from the back of the chair, preparing to stand, and I thoughtlessly dropped both hands upon his shoulders from behind. Surprised, Bouchard jerked his head, and a frisson of tension ran across his back and shoulders. I immediately removed my hands, cursing my clumsiness. "No, no. It would only depress me, Jerrod. I have no faith in the veracity of the press, and can only feel sorry for the poor man." I moved to the chaise, picking up a few discarded papers, stacking them to the end, and sat down.

Chanson grunted, then spoke, his voice rough, "The 'poor man' terrorized Paris for many years, Mademoiselle Butler. Why, it was reported that he murdered women after taking his pleasure of them, debauched young boys and girls as well as kept the performers and crew of the Opera Populaire in fear for their lives! I have no doubt anything of the 'gentleman' about him was but another of his magical tricks!"

Bouchard looked at Dietre, his eyes narrowed and chin lifted, "You know all this Dietre? You heard this first hand?"

Dietre waved his hand, dismissing the idea. "I did not. However, I have heard stories, many stories, too many to dismiss them all. The man was able to sing his victims into a state of paralysis; he could then do with and to them what he pleased."

The eyebrow flew upward, "I see. And this is how he was able to debauch...er…young boys and girls? He sang them…lullabies'?" Bouchard's chuckle had a sarcastic edge.

Chanson's smile lacked true amusement. "Monsieur, this man…" and Chanson gestured at the newspaper, "he was a blight on the life of many young boys…and girls…who were employed by the Populaire. I know of one young man who suffered horribly at age fourteen from Le Fantome's...perverted lusts. To this day, Marcel has not recovered, and he is nearing 19 years. Yet he stays at home with his parents, and lives in shame…"

Bouchard had gone strange; I cannot describe it any other way. He had become still, and…rigidly drawn. Softly, he spoke, "Dietre, this young man, he was at the Opera…when this happened?"

Chanson, stood, and then breathed explosively. "I should not be talking of this…I was going to attend the execution…I wanted to move to the very front so I could scream Marcel's name at the bastard… But, of course, de'Chagny requested I accompany Mademoiselle and you, my friend. But, I was torn…" Dietre looked out the window, his eyes sorrowful, and I was again struck by the man's empathy for the weak and beset…

"The boy…he is my cousin. He was in the ballet corps with the Populaire…joined at age ten, and was a very talented dancer and gifted tenor. He loved it, although it was…a trifle disappointing to his family." He made a face, and there was little doubt that Dietre probably shared the disappointment in such an unmanly profession. "He was attacked, kidnapped, and used horribly, for several days while kept tied and blindfolded. He said he was drugged by the beast's voice…that _le Fantôme_ sang to him to keep him in a helpless trance. He suffers nightmares and his entire personality has changed…he has become withdrawn and shuns society beyond his immediate family. My sister watches him constantly lest he end his life in shame and distress."

Dietre again waved his hand in dismissal. "It was ugly business, and it has destroyed him." He sighed heavily. "I am sorry. I try not to think on it…"

Bouchard sat silent, his face had now assumed the composed, unreadable façade he affected so well, but I could feel the anger…a great, dark anger. His breathing remained quiet, although it had changed, and for several sick moments, I wondered if he, too, had suffered such a fate as a young boy. I could not account for his reaction in any other way…

Bouchard spoke quietly, so quietly that both Dietre' and I leaned forward just a bit to catch his words. "I am sorry, Dietre'. The world is an evil place, is it not, for the innocent and the unwary."

With that Bouchard stood and walked back to the rear Pullman, the Illustré under his arm. I was too confounded by what had just happened to think about requesting the paper.

****

Located on the peninsula between the rivers Rhône and Saône, the Gere de Perrache Lyon rail station was centered on the peninsula formed by the two rivers' convergence, Thus, our travel across the Saône River included a hair-raising traverse over one of twin single-arch steel viaducts designed by the avant-garde architect, Gustav Eiffel, and installed over both rivers in 1879.

At Chanson's urging, an unenthusiastic Bouchard and I joined him on the forward Pullman's rear deck, where we gripped the safety handles on the back of the car whilst we soared over the Saône River below. With no bridge suspension overhead, or visually substantial construction beneath us, and sight of the rails blocked by the train itself, it provided one with the singular feeling of being aboard a flying train.

A simple pleasure, indeed, but one I would have never experienced, and upon reaching the peninsula side of the bridge, I thanked Dietre for the opportunity. We all staggered back into our respective cars for the arrival to Gere de Perrache Lyon.

Just prior to having started across, Bouchard had admitted to having traveled by less thrilling means across to the rail station on a trip to Italy, adding, "But of course, it was before Eiffel blackmailed the city of Lyon into buying his cheap and ugly bridge designs. The Romanesque viaducts that Eiffel's monstrosities replaced were handsome examples of true engineering art!" Having delivered this dark derogation, Bouchard's face resumed its somber air. Silent, he stared out at the passing scenery.

I was, of course, adding another puzzle piece to what I knew of Jerrod Bouchard. He had traveled, and obviously, from his statement, one could presume it was also by rail. Did he travel in private luxury, as would be reasonable for a man who admitted to some wealth? Or did he then travel in the public cars, keeping strictly to himself to minimize exposure of his face?

And for what reason would he be traveling to Italy? Bouchard did not seem to have one religious notion, so I could not see him as a devout Catholic, making pilgrimage to Rome. Music and art, then…that would probably have been the draw. After all, Italy was the Mecca for those who appreciated either, having birthed many exemplars of both while the rest of Europe was still populated by warring savages. The birthplace of opera and the classical music of Scarlatti and Vivaldi, the artistry of Canova and Titian…and Leonardo Da Vinci. I could see Jerrod Bouchard traveling far for those reasons, as he was a man who seemed to hold the finer arts in high esteem.

The ear-splitting application of the Pullman's personal brakes and a half dozen jerks, brought us to the final stop, at a siding located some ways beyond the station, yet with a covered raised platform outside the two mid-car exits. Several men's voices passed by outside, and the uncoupling of our small queue of cars was manifest…and the remainder of the train moved on without us. Anna stirred from her chair, putting her sewing neatly in a basket, preparing to retrieve dinner from the insulated hotbox, and I began drawing water for our tea, filling the large kettle, and placing it on the small gas burner we had acquired through the Gadreau's friendship with the diner car captain.

Heavy bootsteps hit the back deck as Emanuel and the de'Chagny men, Bouchard, and probably the redcoats headed here for an agreed upon meeting over dinner, prior to taking our 24-hour liberty from rail travel. That our arrival in Lyon, France would mean a one-day layover while we awaited the arrival of the engine from Chambrey, we all knew. Though we had not generally discussed it, I think my feeling of seeing it as a small respite from the constant sound of the train wheels and the cheek-by-jowl existence with the others in our party was universally felt.

Anna set out plates of rich beef ragout, with hot rolls and sliced fruit, as I scalded both teapots and brewed the tea. I found myself sitting directly across from a pensive Bouchard at table, Emanuel sitting next to me, Dietre across from him. Anna was in one of the casual chairs, having turned it to the table, as was Plourde, having bullied Xavier into relinquishing his. Plourde was forthright in his feeling that the entire meeting was unnecessary: he enjoyed the alcoholic's disinterest in food, expressing his wish to find a appropriate drinking establishment post haste.

"Get on with it, we have better things to do than watch you all waste time filling your faces and drinkin' bloody tea! Tea…pah!" An altogether remarkable sentiment from an Englishman…

Emanuel remonstrated with him, saying "Monsieur Plourde, we need to insure that we are all back here before the train leaves on Tuesday, April 2nd."

"Bloody hell! We will be here!" With that, Plourde shoved himself out of the chair, and grabbing a slack-faced Davies by the shirtfront, stomped out of the car.

"Aye, we're all bloody happy to see you go!" said Dietre in an excruciatingly rendered English accent, waving at the departed malcontents. We all laughed in response, and I looked to Bouchard, immediately struck by the melancholy I saw beneath his feigned amusement. Despite his air of casual sociability, Bouchard's entire demeanor was quiet. I seemed to be the only one who noticed the thoughtful reserve in his eyes. He but picked at his food, which was unusual in itself; despite his rail-thin frame, Bouchard seemed to enjoy his meals.

Chanson's story concerning 'Le Fantome' was that which troubled him, I did not doubt. I could not know why it troubled him so, and I feared what his reaction meant. I knew better than to think this was something he would willingly talk to me about. I reached for his hand, meaning to pat it companionably, yet he pulled back and moved to vacate his chair at my first twitch in his direction.

'Very well, monsieur,' I thought to myself. He was not open to consolation and wished to me leave off. I would therefore give him all the time and space he needed. He was not alone in his need for space.

***

Gere de Perrache, being located in the center of Lyon, seemed an ideal place to be stranded for a day. Not too far away was the Place Bellacour, known as the 'largest pedestrian square in Europe', wherein I thought to walk off the stress of several days of tight, communal living.

From the west side of the Pullman, we were given a breathtaking view of the 'Vieux Lyon' or old city, with Fourviere Hill and it's gleaming crown of the Bascilica Notre-Dame de Fourviere. The vastly older Cathedral St-Jean nestled before the 'hill that prays' so named for the several convents, palace of the Archbishop and the crowning Bascilica.

To the east was the port-side of the Rhône River, sister/twin of the Saône that held the Lyon peninsula between them. The majority of the shipping was done coming up this side of the peninsula, so that the quayside was abristle with masts and tall ships. Steamboats, such as the Stanley Steamer that had brought us across the English Channel from Britain, hove through the waters, as river transport was still a popular way to travel about France.

We could easily take a steamer from here to Arles in the south, passing through the Camargue Delta…the land of the white horses. We would then sail up the Mediterranean Sea coast to Livorno. There was some discussion about this during a previous day's 'salon' as Dietre' had taken to calling our afternoons spent in the front Pullman.

Bouchard however, had told a frightening tale of Corsican pirates lurking along the French and Italian coast, overrunning entire ships full of cargo and passengers, ruthlessly massacring the crews, and anyone who stood against them. Leering lasciviously at Anna and me, he assured us both, however, that we would be spared as the privateers sold the comely women and young children to white slavers. Having thus waxed theatrical, complete with pseudo-gutting a giggling Xavier with a teaspoon dirk and providing far too much salacious detail overall, I accused him of reading it in one of his tabloids.

Anna had shuddered in delight and applauded enthusiastically for Bouchard's thespian efforts, and her eyes upon him had grown that much hotter. He had bowed grandly, in the French style, and kissed her hand. I covered my eyes; Emanuel quite audibly ground his teeth.

***

Our evening meal done, and a general idea given by all of what the members of our party would be doing for the next day. I fetched the ready portfolio containing the requisite paperwork, put on my cloak and scarf, and sought Emanuel to accompany me to the station offices. Seeing him unlocking the outside mid-car door, I changed direction, thinking to meet him there. I had no more than opened the ornate oak door but my arm was snagged by an annoyed Bouchard and I was gently albeit resolutely towed back to a chair.

Seating me with a firm push, he leaned down, putting his face in mine, and demanded, "Mademoiselle Butler, where are you going?"

Heatedly, I opened my mouth to inform him, but was silenced by the resolute shake of his head and lifting of one finger, "No. You were not." He was scowling ferociously at me; Dietre' Chanson, however, was grinning ape-like in the background.

"I was not? Bouchard whatever do you mean?"

He looked at Chanson and gave a heavy sigh, shaking his head, and waved one hand in indication across my person. "This is what comes of educating the masses, my friend. Displays of ersatz intellect that do not but underscore a total lack of any real functional cognitive ability. Mark my words, man…next women will want legislative representation!"

Hissing, I popped from the chair, "Perhaps you should investigate employment with the 'Illustre' Monsieur Bouchard. You certainly possess the 'ersatz intellect' and linguistical acumen required to generate such mindless canard! Now let me go…I have business to attend to."

Bouchard's eyebrow attained new heights, and Dietre' bent over holding his middle in hilarity, gasping. "Skewered upon your own blade, Bouchard!"

I shot Dietre' an evil look, only to have Bouchard again push me into the chair. "Never mind that now. _Écoutez moi_, Mademoiselle Butler! Please do remember who you represent here…the de'Chagnys. Correct?"

I am sure he expected a dutiful assent. I just glared.

"Mademoiselle, THEY will not gather papers and trod meekly to the station to check on their travel. _Mais, non_! They sit here, in comfort and ease, and await the visit of the requisite official. Am I clear?"

I must have appeared satisfactorily enlightened. Bouchard pulled one of the casual chairs into a centered position, and pointed me into it, relieving me of my cloak and scarf, and the document portfolio. Dietre was dispatched to fetch Anna and Emanuel, who would 'attend' me. Dietre then placed himself outside the center entrance, to look guard-like, wherein he would knock and announce when the expected official arrived. Bouchard handed me a Ladies Journal so I would appear suitably occupied, and disappeared.

Anna pulled out her needlework, and Emanuel worked at a journal at the table, the portfolio of travel documents at his elbow.

We waited. I did not doubt that Bouchard was correct. I simply felt that getting the process underway would benefit us, and properly representing the de'Chagny's could all go fiddle-dee-dee. I had things to do, and did not wish to wait upon the convenience of another!

I wished to check on the horses, and see if there was any place to let them stretch their legs on Mother Earth, and perhaps graze a bit. Well, that would need wait until tomorrow, although if I had time, check on them I would.

I was eager to find a convenient bench, somewhere far away from steel walls and short physical horizons. Tomorrow, then. And I would bully Bouchard into accompanying me, damn him!

I wanted to go sit in the dark…outside…and be alone. It was still light…just past the dinner hour, really. I would do this later…if we could just get this faradiddle taken care of, things stamped and noted and so forth.

I looked at the little watch pinned to my collar. Looked at the walls about me. For several seconds the feeling of being trapped, netted and boxed up overcame me, and I stood, and walked a bit around the room.

After a very long hour, there was a knock on the door, and Chanson stuck his head in. "Mademoiselle Butler, the Station Master is here to see you."

I fell back into my chair, saying, "Good. Bring him in, Chanson."

Anna rose from her chair, but put her sewing basket upon it, then moved to the hot plate and sink to heat up the tea. A very large gentleman stepped across from the train platform to the steps up to the car. Taking off his hat, he entered the car, looking around as if he expected someone other than _me_. I sat, looking as aristocratic as I could muster.

Surely Bouchard did not expect me to pretend I was _directly_ related to the de'Chagny's? I decided to play it as straight as possible.

Dietre' closed the door behind the gentleman, which behooved him to move further into the car. Bowing, Dietre' intoned "Mademoiselle Butler, this is Chief Stationmaster Andre' Roussel." I smiled, and waved my hand limply at the chaise lounge, and drawled "Please, Monsieur Roussel, be seated. I hope you speak English, as I have precious little French."

I was given a very terse nod, and but Roussel still looked about. In perfect English, he stated, "Madam Butler, I would speak to the Comte' or Vicomte de'Chagny immediately!" He sat, and finally looked at me.

"Monsieur, I am sorry but neither the Comte' or Vicomte are traveling with us on this trip. I am accompanying the uncle of the Vicomtess de'Chagny to the de'Chagny villa in Tuscany. Monsieur Bouchard is ill and has been recommended to regain his health there."

Monsieur Roussel appeared…suspicious. His eyes became but black slits in his overfed face as he attempted to intimidate me with a long, wordless stare. I gazed back for a bit, and then allowed one brow to twitch higher. "Monsieur, I will have my houseman show you the documents required to complete our journey, and if you should have any message to be relayed to Monsieur Bouchard…."

"Madame Butler…."

"MademOISELLE Butler, Monsieur!" I dropped the eyebrow and firmed my chin, still giving him stare for stare.

He finally gave a semi-polite grimace. "Yes, well, Mademoiselle Butler, who are you and why am I speaking to you, instead of the…Vicomtess' uncle?"

I allowed annoyance to chill my voice and demeanor. "I am providing medical care for Monsieur Bouchard. He is unwell, and I do not allow him disturbed for…trifles concerning our travel. I will be happy to dispatch my houseman," …I turned to Emanuel, who promptly stood and snapped out a quick "Yes, Mademoiselle?"

"Please fetch the portfolio with the travel papers for Monsieur Roussel to review, and we will allow him to return to his office." I stood and made every appearance of leaving Roussel to vent his reservations upon Emanuel.

Roussel immediately stood also, "Mademoiselle Butler, I apologize. I would not wish you to think I doubt your authority…ahem. However, I have news of a concerning nature that affects the de'Chagny…er…cars and their continued progress to Italy, and wish to convey it to the responsible individual."

I believe I felt my face pale at his words. "News of a 'concerning nature' Monsieur? Please speak, as I am charged with the full responsibility for every aspect of our travel, and all concerned in this party!" I believe I may have pushed my 'Ward Supervisor' attitude a bit strong. The man hugged his hat to his chest as if to protect himself.

"Mademoiselle Butler, please. I can only tell you what was passed on to me concerning the engine that will be taking you on to Chambery…"

***

I sat at table and tried to comfort a howling Anna Gadreau, who had taken the news of our delay with a stimulating display of hysterics. Emanuel Gadreau paced the car's length, and Bouchard, Xavier and Chanson sat in the parlor, heads together, planning Heaven-knows-what. At my request Xavier left to check on the horses, and Chanson and Bouchard chose to accompany him.

The muscles in my neck and shoulders were becoming rock hard with stress and frustration, and I could feel it in the throbbing at the back of my head. I finally gave up on Anna, leaving her to seek the comfort of her bed. I also retreated to my sleeping alcove to lie with my pillow under my shoulders to relieve the strain.

Anna's wails quieted and finally ceased. Emanuel returned, and soon he, too retired. The silence was total, as was the lack of movement of the car, both of which were somewhat disconcerting after days of rail travel. I lay quiet and unthinking in the peace for a time, allowing myself the luxury of ignoring every one of several worries. The horses would live one more night without the feel of earth beneath their hooves; Bouchard would survive his dark mood with the help of Chanson. Tomorrow was soon enough...

By virtue of not giving the situation conscious thought, I allowed the most pressing problem…that of what to do for the several days' wait for the connecting train to Chambery…to work itself out. I felt a corresponding ease in my spine, and the nagging throb at the base of my head eased. Reverting to a calming mental exercise I had not used for several months, I 'played' a favorite piece of music; the first movement of Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 28 flowed unerringly through memory, down to my fingers, as I slipped into the third and fourth movements without pause. I had never liked the second movement…

Opening my eyes in a moment of Beethoven-inspired bliss, I therein nearly screeched aloud like a _banshee_!

Bouchard stood beside my bed. His clothing was in disarray...he wore no coat, and his vest and shirt were both open, no neckcloth and braces plainly in view. He stood still and silent, his gaze intent upon my face as I lay paralyzed, shocked...Beethoven completely forgotten.

I was immediately drawn by the sight of the smooth, pale skin of his naked throat where his quickening pulse was plainly visible. Oh, my.... Dragging my eyes from this heretofore unappreciated region of the male physique, I felt my own heart begin to race madly.

Which made it doubly difficult to assume an honest expression of daunting inquiry, as befits a single woman whose personal quarters have been invaded without permission.

I would have been better served to cross my eyes and extend my tongue for all the affect it had...

Looking up into his eyes was another misstep; instantly mesmerized I watched as he bent forward to set his wide-spread hands flat upon the bed. Without a murmur of protest from the stricken occupant, Bouchard fluidly lowered himself to lay prone upon my bed. Wicked thoughts ricocheted about in my mind as I returned his gaze, helpless to do more than gnaw upon my cheeks in frustrated confusion. He then focused upon my mouth, and his expression became strange indeed…

Reaching for my nearest hand, he enfolded it passionately into both of his, and pulled it to his lips. I felt my ears and cheeks scorching as frenzied conjecture battled common sense.

Moaning loudly, Bouchard visibly shuddered, and through clenched teeth whispered, "I cannot stay here, living in the cattle car for a week. I cannot! Butler...I will go _mad_!"

I broke into hysterical laughter.

Bouchard looked shocked, aggrieved and infuriated in turns, and there was honestly no way I could explain myself without feeling the utter fool. I was finally able to convince him that I, too, felt the very same, and could not endure the idea of an entire week trapped in a long, narrow box. That he still harbored doubts as to my reason…which you will admit, holds no small amount of irony…was obvious in his next words.

"Do you feel quite able to...hmmm...deal with all this, Butler? I am persuaded none of us would think you less if you were to wire Abrigaun for guidance…or perhaps he could take over… The stress, I mean..." Bouchard's assay of my features was critical, as if looking for tics or involuntary twitches…

I closed my eyes to better ignore the man's proximity, saying firmly, "No, Bouchard, I have already decided what is to be done, and it does not require demanding Abrigaun travel breakneck to join us in this mire." After a thought, I added with a sniff, "I think it remarkable you would rather Abrigaun were here after the…ah…incident in Corbeil. Do you have so little faith in my ability to keep this party together and moving to Italy, then?"

I rolled my head to the right, intending to moue ferociously at Bouchard, only to find myself practically nose to nose with him. I frowned until he moved back a bit, with a roll of the eyes. "I feel you may well be a bit young for this much responsibility," said he, stiffly.

"WHAT?"

"Well, you are, yes? But...you handled the stationmaster with inspired _sangfroid_. To hear you have decided what to do is encouraging. I am quite eager to hear, naturally. And, of course, I stand ready to offer help if you should feel any need..." It was a pleasure to watch Bouchard backpedal furiously from the threat of my displeasure.

"I am _not_ young, Monsieur. I lack only eight years of being your age!"

_I am, however, dry and bony...and stuffy. _

He blinked, but said nothing. Wise man to know he could not win, whatever he said.

Others in my party would certainly be less sanguine of my leadership ability. I had no such qualms, having frequently found myself in sole charge in situations involving at least as many volatile personalities. You did not become a ward supervisor by being indecisive or meek. I shifted a bit toward the other side of my bed, hoping to increase the miniscule bit of real estate between Bouchard and myself. He smiled, eyes dancing, the devil himself.

Grimly I throttled surprisingly wayward thoughts, and again attempted to bully my features into that of befitting 'stuffy'. To defuse the situation, I decided to run my plan past Bouchard's critical ear, knowing if there were faults, he would see them. "I have a letter of credit that is good at several financial institutions throughout France and Italy. Abrigaun directed me to draw upon the account if I needed to, and I believe I will. Finding lodging for all of us is probably the next thing to do."

"Humph. Does that include Plourde and Davies?"

"Surely you do not expect me to be so churlish as to deny them the same consideration?" I was a bit surprised at the strong note of antipathy in Bouchard's voice.

After a moment, he spoke again, saying, "Perhaps you should offer them each the amount necessary for several nights' lodgings at a cheap _pension_. Then move the horses to where we are, lock up the cars, and allow them to drink themselves to repletion. I can assure you that money spent on a place for them to sleep will be wasted." Shaking his head, he said, "I cannot believe they are members of the French National Police. The little Ward Four captain would not have stood for such behavior!"

"I am impressed that you can express such regard for the little captain, sir. I would think he made your life Hell."

Bouchard rolled upon his back, demonstrating extreme care in keeping to his side of the bed, an fiendish light in his eyes. "I can think kindly of the poor little captain, as he is still there and I am not…and no, he did not make my life there Hell. Aislyne, it was already Hell."

I was diverted for a moment by the position Bouchard assumed. Without fuss I matched his corpse-like posture: body straight, feet together, hands across my midriff. The notion of 'corpse-like' brought to mind the news article in Le Monde Illustré. I thought about the ill-fated wretch that died the same day as Bouchard's ringer, and wondered, idly, how often two men with similar physical disfigurement were sentenced to execution on the same day?

I shot one quick glance to Bouchard and the idea eased through my mind that perhaps Bouchard was…but no, no! Besides what I knew of him from several days' close association, I also remembered Le Monde Illustré proved that Le Fantome himself was visited and accompanied by somebody nearly to the moment of his death. Bouchard, on the other hand, was in a coach and four, speeding south from Paris, the night before.

Looking at the 'living corpse' scandalously laid next to me on my bed, I had to smile. Even with the patent exaggeration heartily embraced by the Fourth Estate, in no way could you consider Jerrod Bouchard 'lipless', 'noseless', or his head without hair. I had inspected all of the above… especially the hair…and as for the tufts beneath each of his ears…

I rolled over upon my elbows to look beneath Bouchard's right ear. For a man his age…which I now knew to be 44 years…he was remarkably clear of hair (especially in tufts) in, or around his ears. I found myself being somberly watched by one deeply shadowed aqua green eye.

"Looking for something?" His right hand began creeping up towards his face. Knowing it was to hide that which was right in my line of sight...I lay my hand upon it, pinning it to his chest, and smiled reassuringly.

"Actually…yes, Jerrod. But if I told you, you would just tease me mercilessly."

"Ahhh…than you most certainly _will_ want to tell me. So, again I ask; are you looking for something?"

I sighed. "My mam used to look in all of our ears, and if they were dirty, she would say, 'Is it 'tatties ye' be growin' in there the no'?'" I laid on the Irish brogue heavily.

The look on Jerrod's face was wide-eyed bemusement. "And am I growin' 'tatties…Aislyne?" He did a quite competent job of rolling his 'r' and rounding out the vowels.

"No, no...of course not." I returned to my back, arranging myself primly. "You realize that lying here together is beyond the pale. In good Catholic families you would be expected to marry me immediately, just to save my good name." I laughed quietly at that.

I heard the frown in his voice clearly. "Do not change the subject, Butler. Tell me why you were looking in my ear."

"You will laugh."

"I certainly hope I do. I enjoy a good joke."

A deep breath, I turned to look him in the face. "I had a silly....brief...notion that perhaps _you_ were...instead of… Oh, bother! I thought perhaps you were de'Carpentier, the Opera Ghost. But, of course, that is impossible. You have lips and a nose, and there are NO tufts of hair below your ears."

Bouchard growled, "I am flattered that you would think me capable of being a murdering, child-abusing monster, Butler. Oh, except that I have a nose and lips."

He seemed definitely affronted. Slapping one hand to my forehead, I stuttered a retraction-cum-explanation. "I...it was an idle thought, and…and you are not taking it in the manner in which I meant! It is so patently preposterous! Honestly, Jerrod, there are so many reasons you could NOT be the man! I was just struck by the fact you both faced execution on the same day, and he…and you…were…" I ran out of intestinal fortitude at that point, sick with mortification.

Bouchard calmly placed his arms behind his head, nearly elbowing me in the face in the process. "...That we both suffered from facial deformities."

I could think of nothing further to say. Turning shadowed eyes to my anxious ones, he continued in a bitter grumble, "What I cannot fathom, Butler, is that you thought to look for tufts of hair. Would that, then, have been the deciding factor?"

There was a faint teasing manner to his delivery, however. I just could not tell if he were serious... "Bouchard, my sense of humor can be extremely… twisted. I am ashamed to admit I did look for tufts of hair, but the premise was patently laughable and it was all in fun. I was not seriously entertaining the notion you and, ahhh…de'Carpentier…"

"Erik. The name is…_was_...Erik." Jerrod's voice was but a whisper…

"Erik, then. That you could in any stretch of the most liberal imagination be the man they called the Opera Ghost, at least as reported in that nasty news rag you were reading this afternoon." I subsided, hoping I had lessened my offense, knowing I had still inserted a great deal of one limb down my own throat in the process.

"Do you not believe the pitiful, lipless monster depicted in that publication was a true likeness?" Bouchard shot a quick look in my direction. His hand jerked upward beneath mine, but stilled when I pressed it.

Silently I looked to the twisted flesh that covered his closest cheek, realizing again how very little it actually registered with me as being anything but...Jerrod Bouchard. I found myself actually wishing to reach out and touch it, to reassure him. What madness had seized me to think to start this dreadful discussion?' "Jerrod, please, it was just a mindless caprice, brought on by your position, the way you lay, like the…dearly departed. And that wretched headline regarding the 'Living Corpse'. Like a corpse…lying in a coffin. Two totally unrelated circumstances…"

He did not bat an eye, nor look away, but I felt his mood lighten, although his tone did not. He said, "Do you know that he considered himself a living corpse? That Erik de'Carpentier slept in a coffin?"

"No. Oh, how…odd."

"He never hurt children, though, Aislyne, I do not care what Dietre' believes. Whatever his cousin Marcel thinks, or has been told, it was _not_ Erik de'Carpentier who abused him. Nor did Le Fantome ever hurt or molest a woman. It was no longer in his nature to hurt anyone but those who actively threatened the things he loved: the woman, the opera house, the music."

Listening to his voice, I thought to myself, …_could a voice mesmerize, then Bouchard has that voice..._

Bouchard's defense of this 'Phantom' was undoubtedly because he felt in some way akin to the madman, no doubt because of their shared deformity. It felt as if Bouchard spoke of Erik de'Carpentier in a personal sense…

"You are thinking me quite insane, Butler, defending the Opera Ghost?"

Shaking my head, I said, "I believe I was the first person to say I thought a great deal said about him was fabrication."

He turned to look at me, the scowl resurfacing. "He became the scapegoat for every accident, every crime, every murder within shouting distance of the Opera Populaire, do you see? There were times when even I…even he wondered if he were not mad enough to have done them all and not remember." Sighing heavily, Bouchard's expression relaxed, his voice less intense. "But I…I do not think he was capable of any of the superhuman stunts they credit to him."

I studied Bouchard's face as he stared back into mine, and felt again the withering anger that burned deep within him, hidden now. He was quiet, and calm, his breathing regular. "Jerrod, you have strong feelings about this man's life. I saw that today, clearly. I know nothing of him that I have not picked up from general conversation in the past couple of weeks, and most of that was probably the libelous pap given by the press. I believe you are right about the Phantom becoming the scapegoat for a multitude of others' sins."

I stretched my hand to lay my fingers along his. "I did not like to see you become so upset over that which there is no changing."

"You cannot keep me from feeling such things, Mademoiselle. And I am not helpless before my own emotions. I have for many years dealt with pain and disappointment, yet cared for myself quite satisfactorily!" Normally he would have thrown off my hand, rejecting the implied offer of comfort. He did not tonight.

"Jerrod, I am not offering to protect you from the world. I merely ask that you save your concern for the here and now, and set your thoughts and hopes to the future. Give up the past. The poor man is dead, past all defending. And who would wish to say to Chanson's face that his cousin was a liar?"

After a moment's quiet contemplation, Bouchard nodded, agreeing to what part of my impassioned request I could not say. I found myself mindlessly rubbing his knuckles, lacing my fingers between his, offering comfort and solace with my touch. His hand was large, the palm square and modestly callused, the fingers long with neatly groomed nails. My hand looked small and insubstantial in contrast. There was something very compelling about his hand... Forcing the words past a sizeable lump in my throat, I whispered, "As Jesus once said, 'Let the dead bury the dead.' You are still a young man, Jerrod, and there is so much ahead for you." I felt tears imminent, immediately pulling my chin into my chest to hide them as best I could.

He placed his other hand over mine, entwining it with mine. "Thank you, Aislyne."

We lay quietly, then, hands inlayered upon his chest. After some time, his hands loosened, the top one slipping to rest in its usual position upon his sternum; his breathing changed and he slept. Night had come, stygian in its completeness. Distant enough from the rail station that no light alleviated the dark, the infrequent sound of a train arriving was all that indicated we were anywhere near a sizeable city.

I wondered if Emanuel had secured the cars for the night now that we were not moving. Removed as we were from the security of the rail station, these cars would look very tempting to anyone with questionable motives.

Carefully extracting my hand from Bouchard's, I sat up carefully, listening to the soft purr that issued from him, then covered him with my quilt. He sighed deeply and turned his head upon the pillow so his right cheek was hidden. The light of the waxing quarter moon was weak through the open drapes at the window, but enough that I could clearly see his face; the large, straight nose and deepset eyes, one shadowed by a strong overarching brow. His cheeks were hollowed, highlighting Bouchard's need for weight and muscle. Despite his wide shoulders and height he made no substantial lump beneath the quilt.

Slipping down to the foot of the bed in minute increments, I finally put boots to the floor, feeling confident I had not awakened Bouchard. As quietly as possible, I fetched my pistol, leaving the single-shot holstered in my basket. I moved to the living area of the car, now silent and the oil lamps over the sink trimmed low. Grabbing my cloak, which was carelessly thrown on the chaise, I wondered why Anna or Emanuel had not thought to bring it to me so I could hang it properly…and felt my cheeks heat. Did they alone know I was not alone in my bed or was it common knowledge amongst them all? Even as I shrank from the idea of facing Dietre' and Thom tomorrow morning, I felt a sense of…rising indifference to what any of them might think. I was no innocent, saving herself for man or marriage. And I had done nothing wrong.

I was curious as to the effect this would have on Anna, however. Would she intensify her campaign for Bouchard's attentions?

Pulling my cloak about my shoulders, pistol in hand, I moved to the rear exit to find it securely locked. Similarly secured was the front exit, and noticeable also was that Emanuel and Anna were definitely asleep, both snoring in stertorous counterpoint.

No doubt the mid-door would also be locked, but the easiest to open... I then realized the real reason I was cloaked and armed and fussing about exits; I wanted to _go outside_. I _needed_ to go out, into the beckoning darkness, to sit quietly on the car steps, and look at the quarter moon and stars in the endless...wall-less heavens. I needed just a brief taste of the blessed peace I had enjoyed one night at the de'Chagny estate.


	20. Chapter Ninteen

Chapter Nineteen

April 1, 1883

A night spent on the chaise lounge is uncomfortably memorable. Your body recalls, with aches from ears to ankles, back ill-rested on hard upholstery, painful neck from being curved up where it needs be curved down, legs cramped and feet numb and cold from hanging off the end. I suffered in silence my just reward, as I had decided to allow Bouchard the luxury of sleeping undisturbed, knowing he had wakeful nights on the 'cattlecar'. Wrapping myself in my cloak, I selflessly made do with the chaise lounge. It was not a comfortable decision, and one I rethought several times during the night.

Morning brought the heavenly aroma of strongly brewed tea and toasting bread. As I pulled the cloak from over my face I was greeted by Emanuel lifting his cup enquiringly; I did not need asked twice. I took the time to push my hair into a fast plait, and shake out my creased skirt and blouse. Emanuel dropped a piece of browned bread upon the tinware plate and set the butter to hand before me just as Anna wandered out from her own bed, looking as ill-rested as I.

One look from her and I knew exactly how Anna felt about Bouchard's scandalous evening in my bed.

I hastily made my breakfast, thanking Emanuel for the toast and tea before I retreated to the lavatory, having quietly fetched my robe, wash kit and a change of clothing from the alcove.

Bouchard was still asleep, or I assumed so; it was hard to tell as he had burrowed his way deep beneath the bedcovers. His shoes and carefully cuffed-together stockings were at the foot of the bed. His shirt and vest had joined them, somewhat less neatly, probably later. One large, pale, long-toed foot was thrust from beneath the blankets, sole upward and exposed. It was difficult to restrain myself from running one fingernail down the length, as payment for use of my bed .

The hour was still early with the sun but a half hour above the horizon.

Feeling able to face the day once I was clean, brushed, and braided into respectability, I braved the sitting room and Anna's attitude to drink another cup of strong tea. I was carefully dressed for business, although I would first go for a much-needed long walk, my primary task of the morning being a visit to Banc France. I hoped to withdraw funds for suitable lodging for my party, as well as the horses, meals, and any incidentals we would need.

At the moment I had a piece of my drawing paper before me, preparing a list of tasks to be accomplished while sidelined here in Lyon.

Items noted were housekeeping for both Pullmans: plumbing sluiced, rugs and carpets cleaned, beds turned and linen changed, and so forth. The drinking water supply needed to be heavily dosed with raw vinegar while the cars were unoccupied, then rinsed thoroughly and refilled just prior to our return to travel. So, too did the utility water tanks, and the horses' water tank. I noted also to check on the lamp oil and heating oil supplies. It was my understanding that crossing the Alps could be a chilly experience without heat in each car. The box stall portion of the cargo car also needed airing and cleaning with lime to neutralize the odor, and such supplies as hay and bedding straw needed restocked.

As I bent to my list, I was aware of renewed whispers and furtive glances as the de'Chagny men arrived seeking breakfast. Knowing my reaction now could set their attitudes for the next year, I left my chair and faced them. Anna, Dietre' and Emanuel immediately stilled upon my standing. Xavier was far too busy with the eggs and sliced ham on his plate to notice anything less than a full on artillery barrage.

Anna turned away, eyes dark with resentment. Emanuel smiled in a suspiciously over-cheerful manner. Dietre's eyes slid about the room as if ice blocks on a hot plate, landing anywhere but directly upon me.

I, therefore, addressed him first.

Smiling into his face, I stated briskly, "Dietre', immediately after you have breakfasted, I ask that you make yourself presentable in order to accompany me to Banc France of Lyon. I have no idea where it is, but need to go there this morning. Please insure you are discretely but well armed." Dietre actually looked at me, although his eyes still tended to light above my ear or collarbone. He smiled politely and murmured "Yes, Mademoiselle."

"Emanuel, I have a list of items that need seen to, nearly all of which have to do with the Pullmans. I only ask that you and Anna look it over and advise me of anything I may have missed." Emanuel accepted the paper I handed him, and Anna immediately pushed over to look at it. Her look to me was openly frosty.

"Xavier, my dear man, the horses have told me how much they love you." Thom raised his head, appearing more bull calf than man. "I would appreciate it greatly if you could bring them both down from the car and lead them over by the large grassy area between the rails and the stone wall to the west. If either gives you any trouble, just let go. Hang on to one, and the other will not go far. Do you feel comfortable doing that?"

Thom Xavier had proven to be a dab hand at caring for the horses. He seemed to enjoy it immensely, and so I felt he would be an ideal caretaker. "Yes, Mademoiselle." He nodded cheerfully and returned to his meal.

Squaring myself up, I raised my chin to share with them what I hoped would be welcome news. "We will not be staying here in the cars while we await the relay train from Chambery, if this morning's errand is successful. I am arranging for us to stay at a hotel. It would therefore be best if you gather those things you will need for five or six days away from the cars." Anna and Emanuel's mouths dropped open. I was happy to see that Dietre' was smiling in approval.

Giving one curt nod of my head, I announced, "I am going for a walk in the Place Bellecoure. In two hours I will expect you..." I pointed to Chanson, "...to have finished your breakfast and dressed properly for a trip to Banc France. Walk to the North side of the rail station to the path leading to the Place Bellecoure and I will meet you there by the public entrance, where I have no doubt a fiacre can be hailed easily." I gave Dietre' an inquiring look, wherein he said, "Yes, yes...of course, Mademoiselle."

"Good. I will see you there. Please excuse me." I nodded politely at Anna, and Emanuel...who was still smiling far too much...and stepped from the car to the platform. Tying the scarf that held my hat onto my head in a jaunty bow, I turned my boots northward for some exercise and a good deal of focused thought.

*****

The Place Bellecoure offered little in the way of distraction along three sides of the plaza, consisting as it did of reddish earth and gravel, bereft of any ornamentation besides the monument to Louis XIV, and paths around and through the area. It was a fine place to walk and think, without the diversions of greenery and gadgetry.

After a brisk walk twice about the periphery of the massive plaza, I felt my inner spring unwinding, having burned off a great deal of physical stress. Gone, too, was the stiffness from back and shoulders, and for the first time in several days, my chest was not tightly constricted, as if a lung seizure was imminent. I had not suffered one in a very long time, and wished to keep it that way.

Never one to enjoy being cooped up, the unbroken vista of the Place was a welcome respite, and as it was still early, I met few others walking the perimeter of the 'Place besides the occasional brace of young matrons pushing prams. Along the north side employees from the surrounding businesses were stepping away from their desks and counters to fetch morning coffee and beignets at the _bouchons_ located along the Rue de la République. I found it interesting to watch and listen to their conversations. Perhaps my ear to general French conversation was improving.

There was much coming and going at the rail station also; apparently Mondays were popular travel days. Looking at the watch pinned to my jacket pocket, I confirmed I still had over an hour before I must meet Chanson.

After briefly admiring the fine bronze statue of the Sun King astride his horse, obviously well patronized by the local pigeons, I again set my feet to the peripheral path. This time I did not give a thought to stretching muscles or covering ground; my mind turned instead to working through the growing snarl of my feelings concerning Jerrod Bouchard.

It had always been my salvation I could do whatever was best for a patient, yet no patient ever became so singular or special to me that I lost my objectivity. I had served as nurse/caretaker for other men in private care, and on the wards, and kept my head and heart safe, whatever their attractiveness or personal appeal. Naturally, these individuals were either deep in the throes of mental debilitation due to disease or age, or suffering from depression, schizophrenia, dementia or chemical addiction. Therefore, the chance of any attraction was laughable, much less that of mutual intellectual interest.

My ability to nurture and care for others without becoming emotionally involved stood unchallenged for years…until Lucinda Abrigaun. And now…seven years later…Jerrod Bouchard.

Bouchard, as a patient, was an anomaly for me: healthy...relatively speaking, certainly attractive and unimpaired. He was as interesting a man as I had ever met, patient or not. The fact he was convicted of killing a man who had tried to stop him during the kidnapping of his niece was no surprise. Bouchard had a damnable temper and little control of it when in extremis. Considering his upbringing, I was surprised he had only murdered _one_ person...

As his companion and nurse, I was charged with protecting him from everything up to and including himself. I realized the morning I had commanded he parent himself I had already taken responsibility for the ultimate success of Bouchard's future, without any real idea of what that entailed. I had acknowledged it by signing upon the requisite line on the contract Abrigaun and de'Chagny were so impatient for me to accept.

I had agreed, thereby, to keep him from the opportunity to further insult the Vicomtess de'Chagny or her family, or embarrass the patron who had rescued him from certain death. He could not return to Paris, and I was to keep him from doing so by any means, up to and including killing him if that is what it took. I did not spend time pondering this possibility; the day I killed Jerrod Bouchard I would soon join him in Hell by my own hand. Killing him would be the ultimate failure, and my death inescapable...his fate was mine.

There was also implied the success he must achieve by return to his musical 'career', in whatever fashion Bouchard desired. The conversation between Abrigaun and Bouchard in the coach… riddled as it was with lapses of understanding on my part…revealed a man who was far more than just the 'de'Chagny's uncle'. The man had been actively involved in theatre and a musician of some renown, doing so both in secret and extremely well. It was the successful, productive continuation of his involvement in either or both professions the unnamed patron had wished for Bouchard.

Christine de'Chagny's tearful petition for the man's ultimate happiness …something that grew more fraught with complexity…was also laid upon my plate. In everything she said I heard the unspoken plea…'_give me back my Angel…my papa!_' In this was a most troubling dilemma; I could not _know_ Bouchard's heart. The nature of his feelings for Christine was one of the mysteries I did not _feel_ through the unnatural tie that bound us. After his collapse in the horse car, I did not wish to broach the subject with him, either!

And not to be forgotten, Jerrod Bouchard and I shared something that inherently made us important to one another. He was my salvation, and I, his; it could not be simpler. By pulling him beyond reach of the darkness that threatened him I hoped to change my own dark fate and evict the godless demon within; I had found no other way, despite years of study.

Over the last half of my life I had read the works of many early and contemporary authors: Pythagoras and Alger, Digby, Ovid, Sayce and Buck, as well as searching the religious texts of many established faiths…Catholic, Anglican, Hindoo and Muhammaden…for any information on the disposition and dispensation of the soul.

Imagine the shock of the library staff when I requested access to the scandalous volumes of 'The Golden Bough' by Sir James George Frazer at the London Library! Although I was a paid subscriber to the library in good standing, as a 'Unmarried Female', my request had needed authorization by a library board member. (This was provided by no less than Richard Monckton Milnes, 1st Baron Houghton, a man who impressed me with his progressive views as well as the ironic twist to his smile as he signed my request.)

I understood the reality of my birth…how death had first elucidated that divine spark, given all God's children upon conception, from my stillborn corpse before my father could trick my lungs into drawing air. I had no idea why Bouchard faced the same fate _now_, half a lifetime after his birth. That he did not realize his peril I felt sure; I however, saw clearly the oblivion laying siege to his soul.

And so, finding the path to our salvation could be perhaps my most difficult task. Until the moment I looked into Jerrod Bouchard's eyes and saw the shadow there, I had largely accepted the terms of my death as being immutable. I knew at the instant of our meeting it was no mere happenstance, but the inexorable turn of the Universal Wheel. _Perhaps __my destiny was not yet writ in stone!_

I wanted to believe there was a way for me to reclaim that which had been taken. I had never wished to be home to the 'jeh raie', the 'dark child', the 'shadow soul', nor to merely exist as an empty shell, without hope of my eventual salvation! I now had a renewed sense this was possible…all I needed was the knowledge to find that which had been taken from me...and the courage to take it back.

"_Yes...yes...take it! Hahahahah!_ " The chorus within began to laugh hysterically... Mindlessly, I covered my ears, as if the voices within could be blocked so easily!

At that instant a wave of suffocating panic swept over me, born of my terror of exposure...that others might become aware of what I was. The continual stress of living in the two railcars had frayed my nerves, and the tightness in my chest was directly attributable to keeping myself in careful control, my expression serene, my actions unremarkable. Thus far I felt no one had the slightest idea of the damnable nature of Miss...or rather...Mademoiselle Butler.

I was worried about the growing friction between Anna Gadreau and me, though I knew it had everything to do with Bouchard. Even as I longed to pitch her and her foolish husband off the train, I was afraid it would bring me under critical scrutiny...something I would do anything to avoid. My first thought was to beg Bouchard to be careful for my sake...to tell him he risked far more than an adulterous relationship with Anna Gadreau... I could tell him he risked my livelihood…that I would be let go, sent home if there was such a scandal. I would then be penniless and homeless, having given up everything to take this case…

...And whatever possessed me to think he would step back from what she offered at my request…_on my behalf_? No matter what he said, he was no different from any man, and had he not more than once expressed strong resentment at being subject to an 'armed nanny'? I was surely suffering from something besides a mild case of nerves if I thought he would give such consideration to his elderly, 'stuffy' companion!

I felt tears of self-pity threaten, and on their heels, a wave of resentment. I felt cheated…ill-used…for so long I had been protective of those who must unknowingly share any part of their lives with me. I kept them safe… as distant as place and situation would allow. Because of my parents...who had died because of me; my siblings, who had lost their parents on my account. The patients and staff and those few who insisted on being my friends... Had they any idea of what I was, surely they would have been horrified. I would have found myself alone...or worse.

And now Bouchard daily threatened to breech the defenses I had set and vigorously tended for years, meant to keep others safely distanced, my _otherness_ unseen. Lucinda had broken through never realizing she enjoyed the tender care and affections of a soulless demon. I had loved her as if she were my own child; I had, after all, a heart and knew the tender feelings accorded that speculative and psychophysical organ.

Yet there were times I wondered if I had attracted Death to her by making her so important in my life… And my parents?…

"_Death's __companion__!__"_ The unholy chorus within screamed with renewed enthusiasm, loving their witty twist upon my work title.

In these past days I had begun to question the boundaries and beliefs I had lived by, thereby threatening the foundation upon which I had built my safe, solitary life. I had endured my years of young womanhood without the solace of loving mate or my own children; I had encouraged none and allowed few to enter the guarded chamber of my heart. I did not question what I was, but lately found myself mourning those things I could not have. _I questioned the need to deny them!_

This was entirely because of Jerrod James Bouchard. This was the dark child's twisting of my life…

It would be far better to destroy myself _now_, before I could be tied irrevocably _and forever_ to this frightening, compelling man. I could not allow him any closer, could not give him the chance to see me more clearly, to know me... There would be no place for me to hide…and no happiness for him.

He deserved happiness.

I sounded as daft as any one of my former charges, I know.

Forced to a stop by the diminishing supply of air to my lungs, I watched the pigeons wheel and circle the plaza, soon realizing there were no pigeons but bright spots dancing before my eyes. I breathed carefully, through pursed lips, forcing blood and oxygen to my brain to stop the lung seizure and resulting physical collapse before it was well started. I could do nothing about the screaming verbal scourge of the voices within besides ignore them.

_I would not fall to the concrete at my feet, gasping and wheezing for air. _

_I would not lose my mind here, in the public square of an unknown French city! _

After several minutes, I felt able to continue walking, the glittering particles having faded from my vision. My chest remained tight, however, just as the Greek chorus within continued its diatribe. No one seemed to have noticed the hiccup in my progress, and I was again able to circle the plaza without further problem, keeping my mind now upon the _future _aspects of my present assignment.

One year in Italy. One year of the fabled Italian sun, far from the claustrophobic environs of the large city, living a simpler life in the hilly rural beauty of Tuscany. I was eager to paint, to ride my sweet Aminta past fields of wheat and slopes of trellised grapevines, aromatic cypress and olive groves. I was ready to investigate the wonderfully alien scenery, so different from that I'd known in Ireland or Britain. To me, this was the major attraction. That...and being remote from the threat of too many inquiring eyes...

I could pursue my goal of introducing Bouchard to a more realistic view of himself...help him value the talented, attractive man he was. Once he became comfortable with the idea his face did not make him a monster, through his 'familial' connection with the de'Chagny's he could enjoy entrée to the upper level of society, such as it was in Livorno. I had read Livorno was a major port city, and a popular summer place for European families of wealth and nobility.

Of course, so much depended entirely upon him. I had no idea of the actual scope of his talents and prospects, but felt optimistic this situation would resolve as he found his place in society. Jerrod Bouchard was a gentleman, and seemed quite familiar with the customs of polite society. I expected within the year that Bouchard would be socially engaged, living the way he had been denied because of his fear of rejection.

And I? Why, I would be safely sheltered from all save those who lived and worked at Petite Mansion de'Chagny, foreswearing contact with any but those necessary to the fulfillment of my contractual obligations. When my contract was finished, I would go...anywhere I wanted. Perhaps I would return to Ireland and find a secluded spot not too far from Ballinghassig...

Looking at my watch I realized I should proceed to my rendezvous with Dietre', without delay. As I was directly opposite of the south entry to the 'Place, I pushed myself into a longer stride.

What had happened last night was regrettable and inerasable, and may well have given...someone...the idea there was a relationship of a warmer nature budding betwixt Jerrod Bouchard and his dry, bony companion/nurse. I needed to squash that idea immediately without...and within. Certainly, there was no room for _me_ to be feeling any attraction towards the man; he was an anomaly and nothing more. I would keep this in mind, and no matter what the temptation or provocation, I would hold him at arm's length, both emotionally and physically.

As I had done for years before, I could certainly do again.

******  
**  
Dietre' Chanson met me as requested, dressed exceptionally in dark grey sackcoat and trousers that looked remarkably similar to those Abrigaun had picked out for Bouchard. Although Dietre was at least a half-foot shorter in height, he filled the clothes in a manner that Bouchard's bony frame could not; the coat fit him as if made for him. Beneath the coat he wore a dark silver brocade vest over a fine white linen shirt, the upstanding collar secured with a black bowtie. A black bowler set upon his thick, neatly combed hair.

I would bet money Bouchard had dressed him.

Although I admired his appearance, I did not share this fact with Chanson. I could now appreciate why I needed to pay attention to the lines drawn between myself and the Gadreau's, and the de'Chagny men, if only to protect myself from the intimacy close quarters promoted...such as those enjoyed whilst traveling together. Besides, whatever had...or had not...happened between Jerrod Bouchard and myself last night, the Gadreau's, and Dietre' Chanson had no business acting any less respectful of either of us. So far, however, Dietre' and Emanuel were exactly so...but I disliked Anna's growing disrespect!

We successfully hailed a fiacre drawn by a fat little chestnut mare who looked entirely too happy to be a cab horse. Dietre' gave the driver our direction, and within hours, we were bowling back toward the Vieux Lyon...the old part of Lyon, with a great deal of money in francs, a great deal more in lire, and two letters of credit in our possession. One was to be given to the Hotel Le Corbusier to cover all expenses for our stay, and one for a Madame Cocteau who ran a housekeeping service, to clean the Pullmans.

Given a leather case, suitably discrete and locked, we immediately set off for the Hotel Le Corbusier, wherein arrangements were made for rooms for all but the French National guardsmen, as I needed to talk to them first. I had the case locked in the hotel safe.

We returned to the Pullmans, and immediately I heard both Gadreaus' voices, raised in hair-raising invective, yelling in French. I wondered if the honeymoon was finally over?

Dietre' grabbed my shoulder upon handing me down from the vehicle. "Mon Dieu, Mademoiselle...Hurry! Emanuel just said he was going to kill Bouchard!"

*************

Lying deeply buried in her bed, I inhale the scent of her. Her pillow has the fragrance of the Pears Soap she uses to clean her face and hair. The bed is redolent of rosewater. Three of her fiery golden hairs are left on the pillow's linen cover. I have never slept in a woman's bed before, and it is an arousing experience. Hugging her pillow against my body, I speculate how much better it would feel if it were her body instead. I can again feel her near-naked breast and the flare of her taut belly against my hands. I remember the feel of her rear against the front of me. I want to do evil things to her pillow...

It occurs to me to wonder if the curtain is closed to the alcove, but I do not wish to risk moving from beneath the bedcovers to see. How embarrassing if not...

I hear voices, then doors closing, and boots crossing the car. After a while, it becomes quiet. I give the pillow another gentle push.

Remembering how I got here, I do not recall why I am still here, lolling in her bed. I wonder where she slept? Obviously, I went to sleep first, which was foolish, considering what I have decided to do.

I am going to seduce Aislyne Butler.

The look on her face last night put the plan full-fledged into mind. She is all but there already. Considering my vast experience with the feminine body, it is best I choose a woman who is just as untried and ignorant as I, practically speaking. It will help that she is definitely willing. We can learn together, while I find my bearings in the new life I am to begin.

She will be ready to leave after her year is up…anything more permanent is beyond either of us. Has she not told me herself that she does not consider marriage an option for a woman her age? And I have no doubt she will tire of my monstrous face and many irritating habits. We have so very little in common, actually, I cannot account for my attraction to her as being anything other than a physical one.

Lost in my plans, all but breaking into lustful song, and unbelievably, I feel someone join me in the bed. A hand finds my leg, my knee actually, and begins rubbing strongly, crabbing up my trousered thigh. I feel the muscles under the skin jump with tension, as well as the tightening of other areas, and I want to jerk myself away, grab the hand and protest! But…what if it is Aislyne? The woman is a petter, soother, stroker and hugger. Hard to believe, seeing how very little she actually likes people.

The hand has worked it way to my waist, and coming from behind me as it has, cups my bony hip only to slip inside the waistband of my trousers. Nearly I come unglued when it moves around…toward my belly... I draw breath, preparing to protest.

Boots hit the back deck and I hear Dietre' yelling, "Bouchard, se lèvent. J'ai besoin de vous!" and I jerk myself around to catch my fondler, only to find myself hopelessly mired in the bedding. In the few seconds it takes for me to find the blankets' edge and put my head out, the curtain's closing is all I see.

I lay on my back, listening to Dietre' stomp through the car, wondering. Was it Anna? Or Aislyne? And what in Hades does Chanson want..._his timing is wretched_.

I do eventually ask him if there was anyone else in the car when he arrived, and he says, "I saw no one. But Anna is still in bed I think..."

****

"The Mademoiselle, she expects me to be dressed to accompany her as her armed escort. And why armed? I have no idea what would be suitable clothes to do such a thing! Bouchard! You are always so…please tell me what I need to do! I do not know…how do I dress for this?" Chanson's hands are in his hair, pulling it in spikes atop his head.

I pull on my remaining sock, and look at the man who is, at this instant, nearly in tears. He is dressed in his usual style; muck-colored rough wool trousers, rough cotton oversized shirt over an undershirt that may at one time have been white, braces showing beneath a grey formless coat that is dirty and has two holes that I can see. His watchcap is squashed and boots filthy. I glare at his boots shedding dirt upon the carpet, and he has the decency to look abashed.

"Chanson, contain yourself. She wants you armed because she will be carrying a great deal of money. Wash up well, put on clean clothing and you will be fine." I pick up my boot and inspect it critically. It could use a good shine also.

"I have no clean clothing, Monsieur! We have not exactly been able to take advantage of a laundress, much less clean ourselves! Bah, so it always is, the revolution solved nothing! You who have money will never understand how we who do not must live!" Chanson throws his arms into the air in fine Gallic dramatics.

Well, well, class rears its ugly head. Chanson's face has gone a ruddy color and his eyes become most resentful. I certainly cannot allow this… "Chanson, forgive me. Count your blessing, man. At least you need not dance attendance upon the Mademoiselle all day every day. And Chanson, I am not rich. In fact, I am living on the expectations of my future productivity," and I make piano-playing motions with my fingers. Pulling on my boot, I then stand, tugging at the dreadfully loose trousers I am forced to wear. I will find a good tailor, first thing, upon reaching Tuscany. I grow weary of ill-fitting clothing!

"Let us adjourn to the cattlecar and we can look over all that I was given to see if we cannot outfit you in a style more to your…eh…advantage, Dietre'. " At the sudden look of wariness on his face, I declaim, "I have unworn trousers that are entirely too short for these pipestems, Monsieur; I certainly will not be able to wear them. The Great Flood is many generations past, yes? And the coats…_mon Dieu_! The arms end above my wrists! Did they not know it was a lanky scarecrow they were dressing?"

Dietre' finally adjourns to bathe and do those things that the plebeian masses consider their complete 'toilette' and we proceed to dress him. He continues to make unsure noises concerning what I have picked for him to wear, and it irritates me…but is, in a strange way, endearing. I remember well my first 'good' clothing, and how I had to assemble it from old costume pieces. I was finally able to acquire a tailor who would make up what I needed from measurements, using Madame Giry as my intermediary. There were those things I purchased from shops after hours, and as I always paid well, there were never any repercussions.

I finally take Chanson by the shoulders and tell him firmly, "You are obviously going to be an key man in the household, Dietre'." I play-punch him in the arm. "It is important that you are properly dressed for the position, yes?"

*****

Dietre' Chanson looks very dashing in the single-breasted coat and matching trousers, both of which actually fit the man as if made for him alone. I sacrificed a favorite vest, a linen shirt and thin black necktie. But, it is all for a good cause. I cultivate Dietre's friendship…_non_…his gratitude and I am ahead of the game.

I send Dietre' off for his rendezvous with Butler, and collect a change of clothing, after a good long look through my own remaining clean or rewearable attire. Hmmm, nothing black to be had. I settle on a dark blue day suit, with a blue wool vest. All very conservative, all very much what the average shop clerk wears to work six days a week.

As the cattlecar is a men-only area until noon, I take my time bathing and setting up for the day. I hold off putting on vest, coat and tie until later, or at least until summoned by Butler. Comfortable in trousers and cotton shirt, sans collar and half buttoned, and my braces around my hips, I sit on the chaise and sip a cup of Chanson's new vice: coffee. He makes it much weaker than the drink I used to know, in the Khuman's court. There it was strong enough to etch your teeth unless cut with sugar and goat's milk.

I pick up the L'Epogue from August 27, 1882 and read of the debut of Tchiakovsky's 'Festival Overture: "1812", op. 49' in Moscow. Reading of the orchestration, I am heartily thankful I was not there. The sequencing sounds forced and trite, and the cannon fire is surely a bit much.

Catching up on all of the significant events that occurred from the very day I was locked in the Rois until the day I walked free has become my personal mission. This has been made possible by an unknown benefactor who supplied the cattlecar with the past year's newspapers, at least two different Paris papers for each day. Dietre' has professed total ignorance as to where these came from. I read several days' worth daily.

I hear the front entrance to the cattlecar squeak but hear no corresponding footfalls. Looking out the window over the table, I can see Xavier and Emanuel quite some distance away, one each holding a horse, allowing them to graze. Emanuel is sitting on the stone fence. Xavier is brushing John. That means the door squeaked because…

"There you are," she says, her smile is as warm as her voice. Anna.

"I have been looking for you, Jerrod." She has her near-white hair loose, flowing down her back and over her shoulders, and is wearing a morning coat over a chemise that leaves nothing to the imagination.

My mouth goes dry in fear...and something else just as primitive.

"Ahhh, well. Here I am…Madame!" I look out the window at her husband and Xavier, frantically thinking of something to hold her at bay. "The horses are obviously enjoying their little vacation. How kind of your husband to help Xavier...I should go, and help, yes?" I grit my teeth in a smile and start to push myself up off the chaise.

"And do you really care about _horses_, Monsieur? Or can I interest you in another kind of 'ride'?" Suddenly Anna is right before me, and I am chin-to-breast with this diminutive little nymphomaniac. She is staring into my eyes; the newspaper flutters to the floor between our feet as she grabs my nerveless hands and presses them to her breasts, groaning my name. Even as all coherent thought threatens to empty from my head, I feel a fullness and the sudden tightness of clothing lower down. Oh, no...no...

I silently damn a life of forced abstinence that makes me such easy prey for the likes of Anna Gadreau. I can no more push her away and beg for my virtue than I can fly. Squirming backward on the chaise I attempt to pull my hands from beneath hers.

"Anna…Madame! Please…I…I protest!"

Anna's laugh is deep and naughty, and her eyes have all the warmth of the spider for its new-caught breakfast. She allows me to free one hand, which instantly becomes ineffectually airborne, going in circles somewhere about my side, unwilling to initiate further contact. Pulling her chemise up she moves into me, pushing herself onto my lap, one white thigh on either side of mine, grasping my hips tight with her knees, and her…ah…body begins grinding away in circles against me. Her breasts are bare, and her little rosebud mouth is doing something wet across my left cheek.

I continue protesting like a proper little ponce; she, however, is beginning to make noises that are setting the hair up on the nape of my neck. Her hands are now in my shirt…she coos as she pinches my nipple, and a jolt of painful proportions shivers through my middle. I am near to being undone as her hands move inexorably downward to the part of me only too willing to participate... even as fear and sensory overload begin numbing everything else.

Erik, no doubt, would have snapped her neck for taking such liberties with his body. I cannot say that is quite what I first think of doing to Anna Gadreau. However, because I have lived in distrust of bodily contact, and dislike of being touched, the assault upon so much of my body in one fell swoop is more than I can take. Even as my wretched manhood throbs in savage rebellion, I feel an overwhelming surge of revulsion for the proceedings. I do the only thing I can under the circumstances that will stop the assault without need of laying hands upon my attacker.

I stand up.

Anna's backside hits the carpeted floor of the cattlecar with a teeth-rattling thump. Aghast at the possibility of injury to the woman, I immediately bend over, offering her my hand and apology…only Anna begins haranguing me, calling me terrible names and accusing me of such perversions, as I cannot imagine. Her chemise is above her waist and she is…naked below…blatantly so, and I find I must close my eyes or embarrass myself! The air is whistling through the right side of my nose like a teapot on the boil, and I am beginning to feel sick.

I then hear Emanuel Gadreau roar "What are you doing to my sister?"

I look up to see him starting across the car towards me. I remember he is armed and sure enough, he is pointing a gun. I also recall that Butler is gone and I am alone with these two insane persons.

I do believe I am going to be sick or die. I sit back down on the chaise lounge and put my head in my hands.


	21. Chapter Twenty

**Author's Note**: What was once 32 chapters has become 20! I am still in the 'rewriting' stage of this story; however, I will soon move into new territory. The 'original' last 15 chapters had taken a somewhat…action-filled turn, and seemed to take away from the central story. I tell you this because it means I will be composing afresh…and that can be a time-consuming business. I don't have that kind of time usually…it may take me two weeks to put out a chapter, especially as long as these are.

_**I beg for your patience…I thank those who do leave feedback with honest gratitude.**_

**Chapter Twenty**

"_Mon Dieu_, Mademoiselle...Hurry! Emanuel just said he was going to kill Bouchard!"

Tossing twice the going rate in cash at the cabby, I grabbed my skirts, and leapt into a run, my mind spinning down the list of regrets. _I am sorry I did not think to take Bouchard safely along on our errand. I am sorry I did not fire the Gadreaus' immediately upon Anna's initial mischief. I am sorry I could not protect you better, Jerrod!  
_  
I heard Gadreau screaming "What did you do to my sister! Anna, what did this…this… beast...do to you?"

His _sister_?

Anna began screaming terrible names. I recognized a bit of gutter French, a few quaint euphemisms for baser sexual activity. Such things as I learned at Nettles from listening to our older French patients.

I did not hear Bouchard. Nevertheless, Anna was definitely yelling at Bouchard, so he could not yet be dead.

Having reached the door I turned the knob and yanked so hard the chain stay was snapped it from the door. I nearly ran over Anna, half-reclining on the floor, naked below the waist, her legs spread wide, as was her foul, screaming mouth.

Everything stopped the moment I burst through the door…

I instantly assumed the worse, that she had been successful in her assault, and looked to Bouchard, who sat on the chaise, one hand pressed to his groin, one clutching his right cheek, his expression…frozen. And terribly pale. Upon turning to catch my guilty expression, his became even harder, colder and his eyes went dark and empty.

_Oh God, I have failed him…he must loath me._

Looking at Emanuel, I saw he had the old Colt Army double barreled pistol in his hand, aimed at Bouchard. His hand and the gun were wobbling in a most alarming way.

"Put it away, Emanuel. We do not know what happened here, do we?" I was guessing, naturally. For all I know, he had walked in on these two _in flagrant_.

"Mademoiselle! This…_bâtard fétide_ has ruined my sister! Ruined her!"

"Put the gun down, Emanuel, or I will shoot you." I said it calmly; he looked to my right hand, which held the Sheffield, still pointed at the floor. He let the barrel of the Colt droop downward. Stepping over a drop-jawed Anna, I stood directly before Bouchard, blocking Emanuel's threat, much to Jerrod's disgust.

"Get away, Butler. Move! I would rather he just shoot me anyway…" His voice was a hard rasp, yet emotion added a wide quiver that frightened me terribly. He pushed himself forward on the chaise and started to stand.

Stepping back, I reached behind me to shove him firmly back onto the chaise. "Dammit, Bouchard, I will shoot anybody who needs shooting! Stay put or I will sit on you."

Anna unaccountably giggled. "Sit on him!" she crooned, in clear English.

I turned to the woman, who seemed without shame, wondering if she had come unhinged. She continued to wave her knees about in a manner shocking to even me; she was not hurt in any way I could see. Disgusted, I snapped, "Get up, Anna, and go get dressed." She ducked her head, and asked Emanuel what I had said to her; he told her, his answer an abrupt snarl.

Carefully, she pulled her legs beneath her, and with a coy look to Bouchard, rose in one smooth, graceful action. Straightening her morning coat to cover herself completely, she shook her hair back, turned, and walked away to the front exit. We all remained unmoving until the squeak of the door announced her exit.

Emanuel put the pistol on the floor, lifted his hands up and away from his sides and backing to the table, sat down heavily. I quickly collected the pistol, and finding it uncocked, broke the breech and emptied both shells into my hand and pocketed them.

I turned back to Bouchard, who still sat, unreadable as a wall. I had never seen this particular look on his face and my anxiety soared…he was looking...through me. There was a newspaper at his feet, lying as if merely dropped from his hands. His clothing was in disarray as if he had not finished dressing, and his hair was still slickly wet. Visibly shaking, his posture had degenerated in the past few minutes to that of a scared little boy, arms wrapped about his middle in self-comfort. Almost I reached out to him, to offer mine...but I knew that being touched right now would not be any comfort to him at all.

I could see exactly what had happened...

_Oh, God..._. I felt the burn of unshed tears, but ignored them, digging deep for self control.

Dietré was standing at the door, his eyes wide on Emanuel, who was now weeping silently. "Mademoiselle Butler, what do we do?" Dietré looked as shocked and upset as I.

"Dietré, stay with Jerrod. I think he may be in shock. Reassure him...somehow!"

Chanson nodded. "I will get him a cup of coffee!"

I turned to the little man who sat, head in hands, at the table. "Emanuel, please join me in the front Pullman. We need to talk."

******

Anna refused to talk to me, or to leave the center of her bed, still dressed in the shamelessly transparent chemise and nothing else. After giving me one long, smoldering glare, and she began haranguing Emanuel in high-pitched French. Emanuel listened stonily for a moment, and apparently having reached the end of his patience, barked her name once, wherein she subsided. It was nice to know that someone could ultimately control her.

***********

"You cannot tell me Anna did not initiate this..._attack!_...upon my patient! She has been stalking him since her first hour upon this train! And now I find she is NOT your wife...but your _sister._.." I hissed and fisted my hands in frustration.

"Mademoiselle, please. Anna is a good girl. She would never...."

"That is absolute…_merde_…and well you know it, Emanuel!"

We had been talking in circles for twenty minutes, and I imagine Anna was all ears. Yet she did not come out and admit her actions, or even defend herself! Instead, she left her brother to do so; there was no doubt his heart was not in the task. Even as he repeated, "Anna is a good girl..." for the tenth time, he was shaking his head: no, no, no.

Once he had run out of 'good Anna's' virtues to recount, I again firmly stated, "She would and she HAS. SHE attacked Jerrod Bouchard. Why else would she be in her chemise, naked beneath, in the cattlecar before noon! You and I both know...."

"HE dragged her there for his...his...." The little Frenchman was nearly inarticulate in his desperation. He was beginning to intensely dislike this pushy Irish baggage and her uppity ways.... I put both arms across my chest and looked at him calmly. I would wait until he arrived at common sense....

Emanuel raged on in French, in English, pointing his finger toward the back of the car and Bouchard, slapping the table, raising his hands to heaven. Then...he sighed, and again dropped his head into his hands. "Yes, yes, yes, Mademoiselle. Even I, her brother, could see what had happened."

He turned his head to give one resentful glare at the sleeping alcove where his sister continued to hide. "Anna has always been the one to...to grab what she wanted."

The vivid picture resulting from this statement was not one I particularly enjoyed. Poor Bouchard. Poor Emanuel…

As he would say… "_Zut, zut et zut!_"

Having accepted the monstrous reality that his sister had thrown herself upon Bouchard, Emanuel Gadreau immediately began to mend fences.

"Mademoiselle Butler, I apologize for my sister, for the...eh...trouble she has caused this morning, and I _pray_ for your understanding for my deception in passing Anna as my wife. I beg you to understand...I could not leave her in Paris alone. She is a very good housekeeper, although she has worked only for _ladies _before, and has therefore been able to...to keep out of trouble. However, her last situation ended several weeks ago when the elderly lady died, leaving Anna without employment. She was tossed out the door without a sou…without a recommendation! She was staying with me while she sought another position...." His shrug said the rest.

"Did de'Chagny's steward not know she was your sister, not your wife? He hired her, so surely...?"

"Mademoiselle, why would you think they would know if I were married, or that Anna was my sister?" His look was gently chiding.

"Oh, Emanuel…" I too wanted to drop my head into my hands and have a good cry. There was no time for that, now. A thought struck me, "Oh, heavens, I know you did not share a bed with your sister! Where have you been sleeping?"

"Mademoiselle, the floor is quite comfortable once you become weary enough, yes?"

I cast him a rueful look, unable to stay angry at the man. "Emanuel, you are a good brother."

"Mademoiselle, what will happen now? To Anna, and to me?" He turned away and moved his hand across his face, but not before I saw tears streak down his brown cheeks to drop upon the front of his tunic.

"I cannot answer that question immediately, Emanuel. I will need to think. However… whatever I decide, we are moving to a hotel today. I ask that you and Anna pack what you will need, and I can now arrange for separate rooms for you."

With that, I headed to the cattlecar, seeking Bouchard, and wondering what I could do to mend his shattered trust in me...

******

I found both Bouchard and Dietré sitting on the back deck of the cattlecar, smoking cigars and drinking what appeared to be my remarkably diminished bottle of Scottish whiskey. Noticing my suspicious eye upon the bottle, Dietré assured me, "For medicinal purpose only Mademoiselle. Jerrod was indeed in a bad way." He hugged his generously filled glass to his chest, his expression quite serious.

I looked to Bouchard, or his profile, rather, as he studiously refused to look at me, only his glass of whiskey. Well, I could not blame him. For all he had been through, and now _this_...

I cleared my throat, and quietly said Bouchard's name. He stiffened slightly but did not turn.

Clasping my hands, I said, "Bouchard. Jerrod...I am sorry. Please tell me you will forgive me. I did not think when I left you here..."

"Mademoiselle, I believe we have addressed your _failure to think _before." His voice was surprising in its casual tone. He nodded, saying "I am, however...encouraged at Anna's integrity. Obviously, the woman was honest enough to tell you exactly what happened."

He lifted his glass, but did not drink, nor yet look at me. Instead, he shook his head slowly, saying, "Have you any idea how I…felt…upon seeing that look of reproach and disappointment upon your face, Aislyne? No doubt you expected no better behavior from a 'monster' such as myself, yes? I am the fool to ever assume you might think better of me." He took a rather large gulp of the whisky, his hand quivering.

Shocked at his words, I stared at his profile, unable to speak for several seconds. My silence finally pulled his eyes to mine; his slight lopsided grin finally freed my tongue. "What are you saying, Jerrod? That I thought you...that I believed YOU....? No sir, you are wrong! I did _not_…"

Bouchard's whisky glass shattered against the front wall of the last cargo car. I was still watching pieces fly past my head and 'ping' as they hit the Pullman's wall behind me when I felt myself picked up by my collar and slammed against the Pullman, Bouchard's face an inch from mine, his breath hot on my chin. I heard Dietré's exclamation...his glass dropping to the deck. Vaguely I saw him reach for Bouchard, but my attention was on the man whose body pressed mine hard against the metal wall behind me...whose hands were now at my throat.

I told Dietré "Leave us, now!"

"But Mademoiselle! Bouchard! Please!"

I screamed, "**Go away, Dietré! **_**I order you**_! I can..." …and then my voice quite disappeared, silenced by the pressure Bouchard applied above my larynx, as my hands grappled ineffectually at his unyielding grip. His lips pulled back from his teeth, and a low snarl issued from somewhere behind them. His glare locked upon my unflinching gaze, and I watched as battle was engaged in the vast shadowed ocean of his eyes...the haze of madness athwart the spark of awareness. I felt the furnace heat from the black fury gnawing away at his soul along my entire length.

I had done this to him, something far worse than foolish Anna ever could. He believed I had thought him capable of forcing Anna…that he had been the aggressor…_a raging monster! _I was staring into the contorted visage of the Angel of Death…and then of Jerrod Bouchard…his eyes accusing, then widening in wounded despair and resignation.

His thumbs released, his grip becoming but a loose collar. I tightened my hands over his, squeezing them about my throat.

"Bouchard," I whispered, "go ahead...and do it. I deserve it...although...not for the reason...you assume. I knew immediately…Anna came after you! I _never_ thought you…"

Now gasping for breath, I could feel the bronchial structures low in my throat knot, squeezing closed. Still I kept his hands pressed hard beneath my jaw.

"I deserve it…for leaving you...without protection from her. _**I have failed you**_." I was crying, silently...breathlessly.

How close had he come to falling over the edge, beyond _any_ help? How could I have been so arrogantly thoughtless!

I had left him without any protection…no Chanson…and misjudged Anna's cunning and Emanuel's anger. What if he had been shot…_murdered_…while I wandered Bellecour, lost in my own tragedy? I felt the sobs push past the pressure in my chest, and each one was a buckling agony. Nevertheless, I deserved it, entirely deserved it.

His face, now strangely distorted, dissolved into a watercolour sheet... His eyes, filled with frenzied distress, were the last thing I saw.

*****

The point of strangulation, done correctly, is to collapse the delicate structures at the larynx completely. Thereafter, the victim will asphyxiate due to the airway restriction from the continued swelling of the damaged tissues. It makes for a good kill because you can escape quickly while your victim continues suffering for an additional minute or two. There is no recovery, and it is a damnable way to die, by my observation.

I would never knowingly hurt Aislyne Butler. Killing her is not my intent, although I must restrain myself mightily for a few moments while staring into her eyes...her eyes! Does she not _know_ what she does to me...calling out to that...that _thing_ which tortures my sleep...

I am angry at her perfidy in taking the side of Anna, the sideshow harlot. I wish to yell at her, to extinguish her pity, to punish her for her doubt, to scare the very _bejesus_ out of her, oh yes, that I certainly want to do! However, I end up holding her against the wall with my body pressed hard against her, my hands barely flexed about her neck, glaring into her guilty face. And the entire time I am wishing I was murderously enraged instead of feeling this enormous sense of abandonment and infinite despair.

She whispers, "Do this, Bouchard...I deserve it" and she tightens her hands over mine in an effort to make me choke her! I do not argue…but I do not tighten my grip. She is gasping nonetheless, her face pale. She says, "I knew immediately…Anna came after you! I _never_ thought you…"."

Her gasping has become loud and painful to hear. Her eyes lose focus...and because she can no longer speak I must read her lips; "I failed… I left you...without...protection. Forgive me."

And I realize then what she means.

She never thought I had attacked Anna. She knows Anna came after me. And now the fool woman is offering herself as payment for my wretched virtue. Her suffering as atonement for my...rape?

This woman is insane, I tell you.

Naturally, I remove my hands from anywhere near her throat, and start to step away, yet she continues to gasp, and is now slipping down the wall, her eyes huge upon mine. I slide my arm around her back, and then must catch her completely as she sags toward the deck, her body convulsing as she fights to draw breath. I hold her, reassuring her, begging her to calm down so she can breathe.

Dietré, who obviously does not take orders well at all, sees she is not suffering from strangulation, but from overwhelming emotion. He thinks I have frightened her into a seizure. I am thinking it is an asthmatic emotional reaction to her perceived crime of _failing to protect me…! From Anna!_

Eventually she passes out, and by then I am holding her in my arms, cursing the fact I cannot stop bawling and trembling like an over-stimulated child in reaction to the events of the entire morning. Butler, however, is now breathing freely.

Dietré's hands are gentle on my shoulders. "Give her to me, Bouchard. You have frightened her near to death. We need to get her to a doctor."

His voice is not angry, accusatory. He just states the facts. I again assure him I have not scared her as Butler does not frighten. I am adamant on this point. I do not give her to him.

****

In Heaven there is music. At this moment, an angel is playing Chopin's Nocturne Op 9 #2 on the piano. I wonder if it is not Chopin himself...surely a composer of such beautiful music would be in Heaven...and I want to investigate. I am dressed in white fog....a long weightless sheath, with long bell sleeves that hide my hands, and my feet merely move the gown forward...I do not see them. I feel weightless, limb-less, insubstantial...

Everything is white. The floor is white, the walls are white...I cannot differentiate the few furnishings in the room from the walls and floors because they are white. There are no shadows and the light seems to come from...everywhere, even from the furnishings themselves.

I find myself walking along a wall, using my hands to keep from falling over chairs and tables, benches and a sudden chaos of small boxes...all intensely white...that litter my path. Vaguely I struggle to step past and not on the many objects that are strewn across the floor.

Clair de Lune by Debussy now fills the air. Remembering my original intent was to see if Chopin was playing the piano I ask myself, "Do I wish to see if Debussy is also here, playing his music?"

Yes, of course I do.

Carefully, I follow the sound of the piano, as the music swells and rolls, like the ocean at rising tide. For one moment I actually see the walls as cliffs, and the floor becomes a sweeping ocean, breaking upon the white cliffs, white foam and mist rising... It is upon realizing that I must walk on the floor that unfortunately has now become ocean that everything becomes solid again beneath my feet. I continue walking.

A doorway looms ahead, wide and arched with a point cutting upward at the apex of the arch, and white arabesques cut into the wall around the door; very ornate, very exotic and foreign. As I approach there is a dark object coming into view, a piece of furniture, with one heavy leg visible.

I stand in the doorway and see it is a black grand piano, in the 'harp' style, so glossy it is nearly painful to look upon, not unlike a well groomed Thoroughbred standing in bright sunlight. Sitting on the piano's bench is a man dressed in black, his hands also encased in black gloves, with sleek, black hair combed backward from his face, a wave breaking at his collar. A black close-fitting mask covers his face, from hairline to chin, ear to ear, with only holes for eyes, dark and indefinable. The man is looking down at his hands, which are flying over the keyboard. I have never seen anyone play in such a manner...so fast and sure are his strikes, so nimble his fingers. The man sways to the music, he tips his head back and I know his eyes close in rapture, as he experiences the music he plays. I do not know the particular composition he is playing, but I want to tip my head back and close my eyes, too. It is wild and vivid, and compels me to draw closer to its master.

The man is now bent over the keyboard his fingers lightly brushing the keyboard...barely kissing the keys, _'piano'_...and the music wraps around me, soft and seductive, a houri's veil, pulling me closer. I am next to the man, and my arms long to wrap around him, to hold him, but only to comfort me. I need to be held by this man. I put my arms about him, and plead for his embrace in return, but he does not stop playing. Heartbreak, like a blow to the chest, bends me over in agony. I begin sobbing with the anguish of my forsaken heart, my forehead against the man's shoulder. He continues to play, apparently unmoved.

The music is now forceful and played _forte_, affecting my emotions painfully, and I want it to stop. I stand and pull the mask off the man who has become a pounding agony to my ears…and without missing one note of the horrid music, he turns his face up to mine.

I look into the face of the Angel of Death. I begin to sob and scream in terror...

*****

I was shaken awake by a pale Dietré, with Bouchard standing at the door behind him, both looking drawn and anxious. I had certainly taken a toll on my fellow travelers, had I not? And my patient? He would now need help to recover from ME.

"Mademoiselle! What troubles you? Are you unwell?" Dietré looks ready to keel over in a faint.

The dream faded away to ominous shadows, and dragging myself from its dark spell, I patted Dietrés arm, "No, no, I am fine now, Dietré. I had a dream, a very…bad dream..." I could not stop from looking to Bouchard, and his eyes widened then dropped, and he turned away. _Zut alors!_

Looking at Dietré…at Bouchard…I knew something had happened, but I could not remember... Sitting up, I drew my hands through my hair, pulling and tugging to awaken myself completely. Sliding my eyes back to the man by the door, I realized it involved Bouchard…and I needed to talk to him.

_Now._

I smiled reassuring into Chanson's worried face and whispered, "Dietré do you suppose Bouchard and I might have a few moments...alone?"

Dietré looked vastly relieved, which was interesting. "Yes, yes, of course, Mademoiselle!" Chanson whispered to Bouchard, then quietly offered to close the door. Naturally I demurred... Bouchard did not seem happy the door stayed open, however. In fact, it appeared to have doubled his anxiety, and he looked away, refusing to move closer, or turn directly toward me.

Wondering if my appearance was the cause, I then noticed my attire...or lack thereof. It must have been apparent what I was thinking.

Speaking to the headboard far behind me, Bouchard said, "The nurse was concerned your tight...ah...clothing might be the reason for your continued unconsciousness. She removed them."

"That was thoughtful of her." No doubt she had been scandalized to find I wore no corset! "Obviously someone found my sleep gowns. Anna?"

Turning back to the general area, Bouchard's face assumed an ugly twist. "Certainly not. I knew where they were. I hope the selection I made is...appropriate?"

Chin to ankles, and down to the wrists. Yes, it would do, nicely appropriate for the old maid. "Yes, perfect. Thank you, Monsieur."

I idly considered the idea Bouchard was the Angel of Death in my dream. Dressed in black... with a mask, playing the… "Were you playing the piano just now?"

They do say noises in the background become part of one's dreams...

Surely not what he expected me to ask. His brow dropped and the look he slanted toward me was... concerned. "Why, yes, Mademoiselle. And I want to thank you for the thought. I understand you had it expressly delivered for my use?"

"Yes, well…It was down in the lobby, looking sadly unloved, though it was in tune. I requested it be brought up here. I thought we all needed some civilized entertainment. You will have to provide it, however." I gave him a teasing grin, and pretend-played a keyboard on the pillow across my lap....

He continued to look anxious, his mounting concern for the headboard apparent.

I sighed loudly, and gave the pillow a good thump in frustration. "Oh, Jerrod, come now. I am not going to spontaneously explode or change into a rabid flying pony before your eyes."

That won his full attention. He finally _looked_ at me…

"Mademoiselle, whatever are you talking about?"

"Oh, well...you look as if I could wiggle my nose and turn you into a toadstool, should you do the wrong thing." I scrunched up my nose, as if experimenting the affect.

Boucard's expression lightened just the tiniest bit. "Madame Butler, you are mistaken. I pride myself on always doing the wrong thing, as you have doubtless observed!" Delivered in true throbbing oratorical manner…but his eyes remained troubled.

"We will work on that, then. It does alleviate the tedium of travel, however." Pushing my hair back behind my ears…it having fled all containment as want to do…I peeked teasingly at Bouchard.

He remained by the door, still obviously uncomfortable. It did nothing for my ego to think he wished to be anywhere but where he was; but indeed, I reminded myself it should not be otherwise. Sighing, I clasped my hands primly upon the pillow on my lap. "I do not wish to cause you further discomfort, Bouchard; you look miserable standing there. So, please…do tell me what happened, and then you may flee to your piano." I waggled my fingers at him, but could not keep the smidgen of bitterness from my voice.

Stepping away from the door, expression outraged, Bouchard's thunderous response nearly sent me off the side of the bed in surprise. "Damn it, Butler, I wish to know how you feel! You quite frankly scared the...Hell out of me, which is more than I can say I did to you!" His voice rose in volume and his face turned until I was looking at one painfully bloodshot right eye. "Moreover, you have been unconscious for nearly…two…hours!"

Bouchard was now in a temper. Oh, good. At least he was not looking miserable.

"Dear man, maybe not unconscious, exactly….I certainly do feel rested! No aches and pains. I guess I just took advantage of a good, long nap, hmmm?" I grinned at him, unable to contain my relief.

He scowled mightily, but said nothing. Ah, well…

"Fine, be that way, Monsieur! But please…would you tell me what happened to me? I remember a glass of whiskey exploding...and nothing after that. Did you really throw a glassful of my lovely whiskey at the cargo car?" I tut-tutted at him.

The anger had faded as fast as it bloomed, and his face now twisted in despair as he loosely hugged his chest. "Do you remember the contretemps with...the Gadreau's?" His left cheekbone flushed brightly. "Dietré and I sitting on the back deck of the Pullman...and..."

With growing wretchedness, I did. "Oh! Oh, Bouchard, I am so sorry. I...I did not..."

And was shocked to speechlessness when he strode across the room, grabbed both my shoulders and shook me, albeit gently. "Stop it, Butler. No, we will not replay that scene! You are no sorrier than I." His eyes searched mine, and I had no idea what it was he sought…but he seemed suddenly reassured, the anxiety evaporating from his face. Releasing me with the tiniest of squeezes, he pulled a chair to the bedside and sat, pulling my left hand into both of his.

Overwhelmed, I felt a terrible ache fade and disappear.

We stared out the windows for a few moments, collecting ourselves.

Bouchard touched my wrist, bared by the wide bell sleeve of my bed gown. "I asked the doctor to check your stitches. It is not yet time for them to be removed. He was most impressed with the healing you've done despite the injury."

The scar was obvious, but it looked to be healing well. His thumb swept the palm of my hand several times, and I could not stop a shiver of reaction. Embarrassed, my eyes flashed to his face, afraid he'd seen it, only to find him watching me closely.

"Well...ah...yes, actually. I figured I would pull the stitches once we are settled here, in few days...I am assuming this is the Hotel Le Corbusier. A doctor? You had a doctor look at me? Was I that... Oh, Bouchard, it was not anything you did, you know that, do you not?" I took a deep exploratory breath, feeling the residual tightness in my chest.

"So, what was it? I am at a loss to understand why you became so upset." His eyes darkened, so full of questions; again, I was given a searching look. I dropped my eyes, hiding what he might see there.

As if in retaliation, he would not allow me to pull my hand from his.

I had no wish to discuss the reasons. I had made enough mistakes in the past week, and making a total fool of myself was not going to be added to the list. I threw off the covers from my gown-covered legs with my free hand, and made every appearance of being ready to leave my bed.

"Where are Emanual and Xavier? And how are the horses? I cannot spend the day like this. Where is the rest of our party, Bouchard?"

Sighing, his eyes never leaving my face, he shook his head. "Mademoiselle, please do not be jumping out of bed while I am sitting here. The door is open, and if you look through it, you will see everyone is presently in the sitting room adjacent. We cannot locate the French National guardsmen, although a note is posted on the cars for them, giving our direction. The horses are both in a paddock behind this Hotel, with a large grassy _'paturage'_ available to them, along with several picturesque brown cows."

Carefully I asked, "And where is…Anna?"

He looked down upon our hands, still clasped; I felt as if he were considering how much to say about that subject. "She is...here." He was began fussing mightily with my hand, having turned it over to massage the back with both of his large thumbs. It felt very nice, but I could see he was merely doing it to dissipate stress...

"Yes? And…Jerrod…you do realize why she must stay here...for now?"

For a moment, I believe he wanted to dispute it, but he said "Yes." Still holding my hand, his face assumed the Sphinx-Bouchard expression, and he stood. "Mademoiselle, I will allow you to dress." He kissed my knuckles, laid my hand upon the counterpane carefully, and walked quickly to the door. He pulled the door shut behind him without looking back.

Placing my recently kissed hand against my chest, I closed my eyes. I felt as if I had just run a race…my heart was pounding. Did he know the affect he had upon this old lady, the worst of which was that I did not feel like such an old lady these days.

Firmly I reminded myself of all that had happened between us. I was a plain, dry, bony old maid. Not exciting in the least bit…stuffy, in fact. At no time had he ever shown anything that could be construed as…gentlemanly interest. I was a cipher, the companion. It could be said I was his sisterly confidant. But that was all. That was all! He was still…safe.

The entire morning had been an ordeal, for both of us. It was time I got up and joined the real world.

*******************************

My personal luggage had been brought from the Pullman, and was already here in the room, fortunately. After freshening my face and body with a cool wash, I chose a lighter day dress and put my hair in a loose chignon. I opened my door to find Emanuel and Anna investigating the servant quarters, located off the entry to the suite. Anna would be acting 'chaperone' and lady's maid for me, as discussed with Emanuel earlier in our trip. I hoped Emanuel understood it was temporary…unless she was able to prove herself under control.

Bouchard was back at the piano. He had turned it so it faced out the large bay window, leaving his back to the room. He played softly; I did not recognize the music.

Dietré and Xavier rose immediately upon my entering, and informed me they were both 'awaiting my orders.'

"To do what, Dietré? I suppose we must all keep ourselves busy. Are you comfortable with the accommodations? I could not imagine you would want to be up here on the 4th floor..."

"No, no, Mademoiselle. In fact, Xavier is not fond of the elevator, and the stairwell makes me nervous. However, I thought there was something more we should be doing."

That was a thought. "Since your job is security, Dietré, you and Xavier should probably work out a schedule of checking on the Pullman cars at least twice a day. Just to stop in to see they are still there."

Dietré nodded, "Yes, Mademoiselle, we will do that."

I looked at the Gadreau's and then pulled Dietré a bit out of their view. "And Dietré, you, especially, will need to insure Bouchard is never left alone with _Mademoiselle_ Gadreau." I nodded my head towards the servant's room.

He smirked, and I rolled my eyes. Men could be such '_banbh _(pigs), really...

"I understand what you mean, Mademoiselle. She is a forward little piece, is she not?"

Again with the smirk, Dietré? I looked back at Anna, who was now sitting on the bed, scowling, as her brother filled her ear with 'do-nots'.

"Yes. 'Forward' is the word. And she is not to be alone with Bouchard...," I sighed heavily, "…unless he damn well requests it, Dietré. Am I being clear?"

I had shocked Dietré...his larynx bobbed several times whilst he swallowed whatever profane exclamatory reaction I had provoked. He settled on a chuckle, and a scratch of his close-cropped pate. "Sacré Dieu! Begging your pardon, Mademoiselle, but I would not want Emanuel to hear you talk like that." We exchanged amused, albeit guilty, looks.

"Then you should remind Emanuel that he needs to keep his sister under his eye. That will mean we have Bouchard doubly protected. Her behavior certainly precludes him shooting Bouchard for _his_ behavior!"

"Mademoiselle, you do see things differently, do you know? So we are protecting Bouchard from Emanuel's brotherly outrage, not Anna's....er...." He burst out laughing, and shook his head.

I waved my hand at him. "However you wish to look at it. The end result should be the same. Bouchard does not suffer for Anna's lack of...restraint." I felt my face heat and this time Chanson kept his smirk well controlled.

He however, did have one additional concern. "Mademoiselle Butler, I need to ask this...do you feel...ah...safe? I mean, do you want one of us to stay with you and keep an eye on...things?"

I was afraid I knew what he meant. I glanced at Bouchard's swaying back with an inquiring raise to the brows, and Chanson returned it with a frown. "You do not feel threatened by him, do you Mademoiselle? Because, I can assure you, the man for all his feather ruffling, thinks the world of you."

To blush was humiliating. "You are mistaken, Dietré. Bouchard knows that without me, he has no freedom. I am just his…armed nanny!" I hoped, grimly, that I did not sound bitter…

Dietré expression gave nothing away; no doubt he had realized he was wading into deep water. "Mademoiselle, I would be worried about...er...." He turned his face to look at Anna Gadreau as she fussed with the things she had in her luggage, carefully laying them out on the small bed in the servant's quarters. Emanuel spoke earnestly to her leaned across the bed, trying to get her attention. Dietré continued, "She was furious when Bouchard carried you into the car, especially as he was somewhat…distressed...over upsetting you so badly. She swore several times to 'make you sorry'."

I turned my back to the Gadreau's and thought about Anna's character. "I cannot say I am too worried about threats from Anna Gadreau. She is a child in so many ways...I wonder that she really understands what she says."

Dietré looked doubtful. "I would feel better if Xavier or I went with you when you go out. Anna...scares me for the very reason you mentioned. I do not believe she understands...many things."

"Dietré I will do as you ask, unless, of course, I am able to drag Bouchard away from the piano. I do believe Anna will be minding herself for a while, especially as Emanuel has sworn to keep her in line."

Dietré did not seem impressed with Emanuel's ability to do so.

"Dietré the fact she is here at all is because I cannot be without a chaperone if Bouchard is to share this suite. Nor am I ready to send away my housekeeper without a replacement."

Looking into Dietré Chanson's open brown eyes, I was again struck by his decency and lack of guile. I patted his arm. "Dietre, do you ride?"

He seemed nonplussed by the change of subject. "Yes, I do Mademoiselle. I spent several years in the French mounted guard prior to going to work for de'Chagny. In fact, I was with de'Chagny's elder brother in Prussia..." His face recalled for me what a calamity that was. Dietré was older than he looked.

"Fine, perhaps we ought to hire a couple of likely mounts so you and Xavier can accompany us when we ride."

Dietré nodded his head and looked at me expectantly. "Bouchard will be riding?"

"Oh, I expect so. At least, I have been informed he rides well."

Dietré again nodded his head. "Very well, Mademoiselle, you have but to let us know. Xavier and I will be either in our quarters, or in the public room. With your leave, we will go find a meal."

"An inspired idea! I think I will go visit with the 'maid' about our meal. I am feeling a bit peckish myself." I could not stop myself…I grabbed Chanson's arm, giving it a companionable squeeze. "Dietré let me know if you need anything to insure you and Xavier are comfortable."

Dietrés smile was warm, but he snapped his gaze toward the piano, and then back to mine, waggling his brows. I turned to find Bouchard watching us, his expression enigmatic. He immediately returned to his piano.

Tapping Xavier on the shoulder, Dietré and Thom nodded respectfully and set off for their quarters.

I turned and watched Anna Gadreau as she sat bouncing on her bed, smiling and talking to her brother, as if nothing had happened this morning. I wondered at the woman's intelligence and mental state. She was obviously lacking something. Emanuel's eyes shot to mine and he shrugged.

I was wishing that I could be as unconcerned about things I had done in my past.


	22. Chapter TwentyOne

_**NOTE: There is definitely very…er…graphic material in this chapter. I suggest anyone reading not do so if under the age if 18, or very sensitive to attempted sexual assault, or…most especially… if eating lunch. **_

_**I expect I'll get hit by flying dingbats for this chapter. I will not change a word. I am NOT anti-Catholic. **__  
_

**Chapter Twenty One**

I do not like having enemies. Oh, like anyone else, I have made them, and usually there is precious little one can do that will guarantee otherwise. I have done my best, as God is my witness, to do no harm or evil to anyone whatever their feelings for me. But, there have been exceptions…

Part of the religious training that the younger females in our parish received while I was growing up was at the hands...quite literally...of the parish priest, Theodus Graves. Father Graves was known as 'Handy Graves', meaning that you did not ever allow the man too close, particularly if you were between the ages of six and ten, and female. There were rumors of exceptions wherein the Good Father had expressed his baser needs on young lads, but it was upon the weaker girls he primarily preyed.

I was warned most carefully by my sister, Beyvin about the priest. She told a harrowing story of being waylaid by him while she was in the privy out back of the church kitchen one summer's night. She was seven years old. Father Graves actually followed her out to the privy and attempted to haul her, bare-arsed atop his lap. She remembered he kept 'fussing' at the front of his pants and she kept screaming like a banshee. He finally let her go, after assuring her she was going straight to Hades if she said one word to anyone about what 'she had done'.

I have no doubt this was his standard threat to his victims, wielded to good effect, considering who he was. My response was not quite what he could have wished.

Every month the priest's house was attended to, all the woodwork cleaned and oiled, the rugs taken out and beaten, furniture, walls, windows and so on thoroughly cleaned by the parish ladies. There were special jobs that the younger lasses were expected to do, such as cleaning the library, which meant each book was to be wiped down and every shelf dusted. Four or five young girls could do the job easy in one afternoon, if they did what they must, did not blather overmuch, and kept a chary eye on the priest. However, I was in the unenviable position of being sent over with three of the biggest doddlers and henwits in my third year class: Kirsten McElroy, Prim O'Donnel and Nell MacAfee.

I figured not one of these three had the slightest idea of the hazard we faced, as none had an older sister to warn them. My plan was to glue myself to Kirsten and Prim, as they were inseparable cronies, leaving poor Nell to be the sacrificial lamb. Nell tended to keep to herself and aimlessly wander off…rather like me, in fact… I, therefore, needed to keep my wits about me.

I was not popular in school. It was a Catholic school, naturally, because there were no other educational prerogatives available in Ireland at that time short of being sent off to a boarding school in a larger city…which my parents did not think necessary for their children. I, alas, proved to be a very intractable Catholic, and it showed in my 'deportment' scores, although I was an excellent student of the secular subjects, such as reading, spelling, and math. The teachers, who were members of the black-clad Sisters of the Presentation, had developed a justified disaffection for me; I was an odd-behaved know-it-all in class, always ready to argue 'commonsense versus religion', having developed an attitude about such things at home. Granny Muldoon gave me a jaundiced view of religion generally, and Catholicism in particular.

Such things made me a pariah with my peers; no one wished to have their hands smacked because they had been observed communing with that godless hoyden Ails Butler.

Despite my shortcomings, I was volunteered just as everybody else to go wipe down the books that Father Graves doubtless had never so much as touched.

I reveled in books, and once I had actually entered the parish house library, I could not help myself…I began actually reading a page or two of each one. Most of the books were dry, religious tomes, written in the archaic fashion that only the most determined theologics would find of interest. Yet every now and then I would stumble upon a jewel; an obviously newer acquisition shelved amongst the dry, cracking volumes, long forgotten. There were books on secular philosophies, histories of civilizations long fallen, archeology and cosmology; Ben Franklin's 'Experiments in Electrostatics', Edward Gibbon's 'Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire', as well as several books on chemistry and a math called 'algebra' that greatly intrigued me. There were full shelves of classic novels, such as the Waverly's, some very interesting autobiographies, and a stack of atlases dated from the 1600's.

There were small books...called pamphlets...on subjects I had not before heard of, such as 'Slavery and the Rights of Man', 'The Economics of Education for the Masses', and 'Life and Times of Shakespeare".

In touching these book, I made a promise that someday…_I would read every one._

Kirsten, Prim and Nell sat empty-handed and gossiped, snapped each other with rags, and repeatedly dropped ancient volumes that promptly exploded into mere dust and chaff. They swiped at the fronts and tops of the books, dusting the shelves with a rub along the front of the books, and generally goofed off. I kept a wary eye on Prim and Kirsten, and continued reading and dusting, sometimes cleaning several others whilst reading one precariously balanced on my tall, bony knees.

The morning flew, and I was nearly done with my wall, when I noticed the complete and utter silence. No stupid chatter. No squeals of adenoidal laughter. I was alone!

'Plays of Shakespeare' hit the floor with a thump, utterly forgotten. I flew across the library to the matched doors to the hall; icy terror sluiced down my spine at the sound of his malevolent laughter coming down the hallway. I grabbed the door knobs, praying I still had time to get away in the opposite direction down the long hallway, but It was too late for that. The knobs turned beneath my hands, the doors opening towards me and I staggered back, aghast. I was looking into the rosy-cheeked face of Father Graves, he as gleefully happy to see me as I was horrified to see him. He knew I was here alone.

Perhaps Father Graves had once been a nice looking man. He had thick silver hair that fell in ringlets to his collar, trimmed short across his forehead, and his eyes appeared to sparkle with good humor to match his jolly attitude. But his lips were thin and cruel; they actually snarled, baring both grey-tinged sets of canines, when he smiled. And his eyes...had no one looked closer to see what was there? A turgid blue boil of malevolence pulsed where the pupil and iris of the eye would normally be, making his gaze as blind and soulless as that of a painted china doll.

And he knew, oh yes!...he knew why my eyes grew wide and wet, and the color fled my fat apple cheeks. I stumbled back from the door, my arms pinwheeling, and he laughed yet again.

I immediately began a panicked mental summation of the available exits from the library that did not require coming within grabbing range of 'Handy Graves'. Naturally, there were none. The windows were closely barred…_barred!_…and there were no secondary doors or 'servant' exits. Just the two doors he now stood before. He smiled, displaying more of his dingy, pewter-grey teeth, gapped with disease and neglect.

"Your workmates have gone home, lass. I sent them on…they said they were all finished, but that you, you lazy slut, you were still working at your task." His smile widened and his nostrils actually flared, as if to suck in the scent of my terror. He leaned forward to point one long-nailed finger at me, chirping gaily, "So it is just you and me, lovely little Butler. And we are going to have so much fun!"

He shut the doors behind him, and I watched in agony as he turned over the latches, rough-cast levers that twisted a full half-turn to throw home the bolts. Then he turned towards me, and _I swear…he became a demon_, his face a greasy puce and all his silver hair melted away leaving a pocked and scabby pate. Baring canines grown long, he sprang at me.

I had brothers. Often times I found myself on the wrong side of one, temper-wise, and had to take evasive maneuvers in order to keep from having my conk rung or backside split by a booted brotherly foot. It was therefore pure instinct that made me slip behind the moth-eaten old couch in the middle of the library, leaving him to either climb over it or chase me from behind it...from the right, or the left.

I do not believe anyone had ever tried to evade him before; he startled and made a very odd noise. I stayed a step back from the couch as he decided what he would do. He feinted to the right, I stepped to the left; he committed to run around on the left, and I was around on the right and heading for the double doors, an acceptable lead in my favor.

It was the latch that doomed me...it stuck badly and my desperate fingers were clumsy with terror. The fist that grabbed my cursed thick braid was merciless, and he cranked me back by it as a birder hauls his dogs out of the water by their thick tails. Twisting one of my arms into a miller's hold, Graves' other arm came around me, and his hand lay flat over one side of my chest. He pinched one barely-existent nipple between the pad of his thumb and his index finger, hard, and I wailed like a skewered cat, letting it rise to a _boghee'_s shriek, hoping against hope that someone would hear it and seek the cause. His hand, clammy and redolent of much arse-scratching, slapped over my face, and I gagged at the smell and feel.

He shoved me across the room to the end of the divan, against the overstuffed arm. I felt a hand moving up under my dress, fingers pinching me and nails ripping at the flesh of my thighs and buttocks. His cruel fingers then tore at my drawers, and he twisted me around to face him, my arm still tightly wrenched against my back. His fetid breath was in my face, and my breakfast came up into my throat. Gagging and gasping, I felt as if I was dying; overwhelmed by shame and terror, I prayed mightily I would…and very soon. Bending me backward over the arm of the prickly old divan, he rammed his knee between my bared thighs, spitting foul obscenities.

Paralyzed, I stared into the demon's face, its eyes twin holes to Hell's seventh pit, and its tongue a smoking, scaled wyrm…

I closed my eyes… A funereal keening grew louder in my ears, spiraling up from the echoing, empty seat of my soul…

A sudden flood of crimson fury swelled inside my head, sweeping away my terror. The rage inside seemed to double in size with each thundering beat of my heart, filling me with a molten pressure . Every muscle in my body wound up so tightly I could actually feel the tendons creak with tension.

I opened my eyes to look in the twin pyres of the priest's...and heard a voice inside my head demand loudly, "_**Stop or I will stop you**_."

The demon did not stop; it began pushing itself at my body, something hot and hard slamming against my belly. Its putrid face leered down into mine...

There was a scream like that of Mr. Clancy's evil-tempered mare as I felt the fury within released upon my tormentor with the clean 'thrum' of a loosed arrow.

My arm twisted free of his grip with a snap of pain; I brought both hands between our bodies, clawing into, tumescent flesh, ripping up his hairy flesh with my raggedly sharp nails. He jerked backward, a scream already erupting, as I jack-hammered my heels into those of my tormentor. Grabbing the sides of my head he sought to yank me off balance by pulling me into him; I instead shoved my forehead hard at his yawing mouth, flattening his nose in the effort. His eyes bugged with the pain yet he latched upon my ears all the harder, and opened his mouth wide, canines bared. I latched my nails into his cheeks and rammed him again with my head, this time coming from below his chin, to close his foul, cursing mouth with a loud crack of meeting teeth…

And I was free, the hard pinching hands, leering face and oily appendages away. The fiery tint to the world faded and my eyesight cleared. Where before the Demon Priest stood laughing and ripping at my body, there was now a whining lump, rolling in agony on the floor. Its face and nose leaked blood and snot. It was holding its hands against the front of its unbuttoned trousers and, again, there was blood. I looked at my hands seeing the priest's blood under my fingernails.

"**You will go to Hell for this, you devil-spawn! You demon bitch!"** Father Graves yelled, blubbering and hawking blood, rocking back and forth on the floor while his hands cupped his belly. **"You will rot in HELL!"** He looked down and whimpered, panting in pain. "I damn you! Your grandmother is right! She's right! You are the Devil's own spawn!"

I was trembling so hard it was difficult to stand and the smell of him was making me wish to vomit where I stood. But his words shocked me, as I could not imagine he would curse me, after what he had tried. I leaned over to look in his face and the words fell from my mouth without thought: "Nay, Priest! If I go to Hell, you will be there before me, licking the Devil's arse, you soulless scum." I spat blood into his white, stunned face, and ran to the doors, unlocked the latch and ran down the hall and out the back door.

*********

It was a long walk to home, and I was violently sick several times, and my bowels had turned to water. Upon reaching home, I hid until I could get to the laundry shed unseen. I washed myself many times with the strong lye soap used to get our clothes clean. I used the laundry brush on my nails and fingers, and painfully discovered that some of the blood was my own; so forcefully had I used my nails on him I had torn them from my fingers. I washed my face of blood and snot, saliva and tears, and found bruises and swelling where my face had contacted his, and many cuts from his teeth around my right eye and forehead. He had left scores and bruises upon my thighs and buttocks with his pinching and nails dug into tender flesh. My clothes were ruined, as I had messed myself, and blood soaked the bodice from my face and the priest's, so I took them off and buried them under the trees out back of the shed.

My sister, Beyvin, was the first to see me, that very evening as I crept through our bedroom window, dressed in only a chemise. She knew without asking. She inspected my bruises and cuts, the nail scores across my thighs and buttocks, and without a word, she wrapped her arms around me and rocked me while she cried, and I cried with her, until my terror and rage and hate were drained from me.

I hid myself from my parents for several days until my black eyes and the cuts on my face had reduced in swelling. It was easy to do; I just lost myself in the crowd. I became invisible at mealtimes by never asking for seconds, the mornings by dressing myself, doing my own hair and always being ready for school. If Mam did not have to help me, she would never think to seek me out. I found my wish to remain invisible subtly aided by my older siblings.

That is the way of big families. By the time either of my parents actually noticed my bruises and cuts at all, it was put to over-aggressive play. They were used to their children attempting to kill themselves while doing one dangerous stunt or another.

However, I could not hide at school. The nuns looked me over, with my battered face and torn fingers and it seemed they knew exactly what had happened. No one besides my siblings ever showed the slightest compassion over my wounds.

There was no mass said in our parish for many weeks, while the priest recovered from his injuries. Father Graves had reportedly suffered a 'fall' resulting in facial injuries and a broken foot.

I was in the parish church when Father Graves returned to perform his first mass since his 'accident'. My mother had insisted that we all attend to 'cheer the Good Father'. I was not going to miss looking him in his demon eyes, letting him know I was neither scared nor intimidated. I wanted to see what I had done to him…and rejoice. I dressed for church, braided my hair, and shined my shoes. I sat in the same row we always did, between my mother and Beyvin, who held my hand.

When Father Graves walked in, limping rather heavily, with his vestments and his white surplice, his eyes came round right to me, and I saw him blanch pure white. He fell against the altar, and immediately one of the church elders was there to aid him. Charles Graves looked at me and snarled, and I knew; I now had an enemy for life.

No doubt the rest of the congregation thought he'd had a moment of weakness and pain. I knew he had suffered a moment of fear and hate. Right there in God's own house.


	23. Chapter TwentyTwo

**AUTHOR'S APOLOGETIC NOTE: I humbly apologize for the long, long….long wait for this update. It has been a difficult four (five?) weeks, and I will share here, so that all may feel suitably sorry for me.**

**I work in a civil rights agency…and in December the director retired. I had worked for Kaye for 16 years…we had become friends; a mutual admiration and true team-effort atmosphere prevailed, and overall all five of us ran a well-programmed and well-respected agency.**

**Now I have a new director, for whom I am the administrative assistant. New Director, however, is a far different kind of cat; and I have had to make VAST changes in my day-to-day schedule to accommodate her. I am constantly on the run, I attend far more meetings than is mentally healthy, I do all of her typing, keep her appointment book, make her travel arrangements. Kaye did most of this herself, freeing me to keep my specific tasks up to date. I am unable to take the occasional day off in order to write, and must instead save all my vacation for a big mandated two-weeks vacation twice a year. (I shudder to think what awaits me after TWO WEEKS of absence!) Finally, I am no longer ****allowed**** to hide out at my desk over the noon hour and during my two 15-minute breaks. I HAVE TO LEAVE THE OFFICE. This has all directly impacted this story. Early retirement sounds wonderful, but is impractical as I am currently the only paycheck in our home (a big one, however, which is nice). **

**Evenings I spend acquainting myself with ADA law, which is a bear. New Director has decided I am to become the 'expert' in Disability Law, and it frightens me to death. I am in the middle of menopause, and my memory is failing as fast as my ovaries…**

**SO: I am writing as fast as I can. I will not be leaving this all behind, so please put me on your 'chapter alert' and I will post at as fast a rate as I can. Remember…I HATE short chapters, so every one will be at least 5,000 words. I will just have to learn to write better…I'm cutting out half of what I write these days just because I put in so much violence, sublimating my current work environment and all the attendant frustration!**

**Read On! And kisses for all the supportive private messages!**

April 2, 1883

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

I accompanied Thom Xavier on his morning check on the horses, and was quite pleased with the situation they now enjoyed. I had noticed that Aminta was developing a coughing wheeze, usually called 'shipping croup', caused by enclosure in spaces with inadequate fresh air. Such as cargo cars… I was now confident that several days outside with good grazing would clear up her cough.

She also needed exercise. Being taken out for a nice collected trot down a clear country road would serve nicely, with maybe a hand gallop thrown in to work out any remaining fidgets. Yet, I will admit that Aminta probably did not need this near as much as I.

My pockets contained a half-dozen hard molasses cookies and two apples, all provided by the horse-loving cook in the hotel kitchen. Aminta made it clear she had no interest in the fruit and mugged me shamelessly for 'just one more cookie'. Ever the gentleman, John refused the remaining two cookies in deference to his greedy stablemate, choosing the apples. He took bites whilst I held each apple, and was endearingly careful about my fingers. I supplied scratches as requested and checked feet all around, giving Thom a brief lesson on hooves, and the proper care and condition thereof.

The stable lad and I spoke at length about Aminta's novel habit of flattening her ears despite a perfectly biddable disposition. He related that he had thought the barn cat a goner…Aminta had greeted the friendly beast with both ears and neck flattened. However, she and 'Boots' were cuddled together in the deeply bedded stall most of the night, and the cat greeted me by weaving through my skirts, then Aminta's legs without harm.

The idea of a gentle ride having become overwhelming in my thoughts, I left Xavier with the task of pulling out our tack boxes from storage, and marched through the gauntlet of hostlers, coachmen and idle menservants who loitered about the back of the hotel. I received naught but a rude stare or two. I returned to the suite to find Emanuel on his knees next to the fireplace, wiping up a spill of some sort. Anna was sitting upon her bed, her apron held to her face. Bouchard was in his room, the door closed. There was the feeling of something having just happened…a touch of resident violence in the air…

I immediately inquired of Emanuel, "What has happened?"

Emanuel made a sketchy gesture with his hand, saying, "Mademoiselle…why, nothing! Monsieur Bouchard has dropped his coffee cup…" At the sight of my face, he added, "These two…they cannot spend two minutes in each other's company without a fuss…"

I raised an eyebrow at his tone. "Emanuel, _she_ is not to do anything to upset him! _She_ is to be busy, and never '_in his company!_' If you cannot insure her behavior is suitable around my patient, then perhaps it would be best…"

"No, no! Mademoiselle…yes, it is my fault. I should talk to her immediately, and this, it will not happen again. I swear…" Pushing himself up from the floor, Emanuel held his hands up, the coffee-sodden rag dripping from one. "I will speak to her…she is just…I will speak very strongly with her, Mademoiselle! She _will listen_!" The man's expression was nearly panicked, a wild look appearing in his eyes.

Unable to look in Emanuel's face without feeling guilt, I marched to Bouchard's door and tapped lightly, saying his name.

"You may come in."

He was at the writing desk, several sheets of the hotel foolscap stacked beneath his scribbling pen. "I was writing you a note. I did not wish to just disappear…"

"What? Bouchard, you _cannot_…"

"I cannot what? Escape from the attentions of yon succubus? I can and will!" He jerked himself up and out of the chair, abandoning pen and paper mid-word, to stride purposefully across the room to fetch his homburg. "I am going for a long walk; I will return after I have regained my composure! Chanson is awaiting me in the hotel lobby and will, be assured, serve well as my personal gaoler." Almost rudely, he pushed between me and the door, moving me back with his arm. I followed slowly, shocked by his blunt, churlish behavior.

Stopping at the suite's wide doors, Bouchard turned half-about, his left flushed with anger…and inclining his head, snapped, "Madame Butler!", then marched out of the suite, quietly closing the doors behind. Helpless to do otherwise, I followed, trailing Bouchard down the front stairway, to where Chanson awaited him at the foot. Chanson seemed a bit confused to see me; nonetheless, he tipped his head respectfully and at my nod, followed his fuming charge out the front doors.

Returning to the suite, I was dismayed with the intensity of my emotional reaction. I was quite eagerly looking forward to a long, leisurely ride on my darling Aminta, with Bouchard and Chanson as companions. All for naught!

I could not allow myself to admit I might have been much more unhappy at the disgust and disaffection apparent in every line of Bouchard's frame...

********

I have walked along the Rue de la Republic before, but of course, it was at night. In a city such as Lyon, this does not necessarily mean I would not meet other people, and I frequently did, but always I wore my cloak with the hood up to hide my masked face.

Today, I walk dressed as a gentleman, in deep brown, not black, with Dietré masquerading as my valet in his grey suit. I pull my hair over my cheek, _le poèt émotif_ as Dietré describes me. Despite the stress and ugliness of the past few days, I feel a sense of optimism and wellbeing… Blame it on the sun shining benevolently upon the tree-lined walks, or the fact that despite my grotesque appearance, several attractive ladies smile at me. It is enough.

We spend a good part of the morning depleting our wallets, and then sitting in a small public park across from the main thoroughfare, watching women. Dietré has a good eye, and is well versed in women, and the art of flirtation. He can pick out the 'demi monde' and shop girls from the respectable young matrons, or the gently bred and unmarried young women who, with their mommas, cruise the shops in flocks of four or more. Dietré will even give an educated guess as to their station in society based upon their clothing, the fashion and fabrics thereof, as well as those servants attending them. It seems young women travel in hierarchal packs, and a gentleman should know where in the overall order of society such a pack belongs before making any eye contact.

I am also given instruction on the delicate art of making said eye contact without being over-bold, and proper use of the hat to indicate interest and/or respect, depending upon the female addressed.

Of course, one must also factor in one's overall objective. He says we will cover this on another day, his face stretching into a suggestively broad grin.

Fascinating stuff. Dietré pronounces me a stellar student, but assures me a great deal of practice and further instruction is needed. When asked if Italian women are approached differently, he advises soberly we will need to do intensive field study on the subject when we arrive in Tuscany.

Which recalls the problem I will face for the term of our travel. I think it reasonable this situation with Anna Gadreau should be brought to Chanson for his advice. I open the subject with a long sigh, saying, "Right now Tuscany seems to be too damned far away." Dietré agrees, his expression expectant. I request his insight and we dissect the situation together. His views and suggestions surprise me...

Tapping his chin thoughtfully, Dietré says, "Many men would be flattered by such attention...to be pursued by a woman of Anna Gadreau's beauty. I do not think she is a totally amoral woman, indiscriminate with her affections. I believe she wants only you, Bouchard."

"I cannot see 'affection' has anything to do with her attentions! She has an unseemly fixation upon my face...my monstrous, hideous face! She wants to touch it, to…to give herself…her maidenhead to a…demon." I blush hotly, remembering her obscene language, her whispers of twisted passion, during her assault not 24 hours past. Such filth and vulgarity I would never have believed could come from an angel's visage!

Dietré looks at me appraisingly, then says, "Are we not first drawn by the physical? The woman's skin...or the luscious span of her rear? Her breasts, or plump, shapely thighs? For women it is always the width of our shoulders...the strength in our arms or…our willingness to put them to use at their request!"

Grimly I counter, "Dietré, there is nothing attractive about twisted flesh and scars, and that is the attraction! And I do not believe Anna Gadreau's perverse interest in me is in any way flattering."

I am again given a measuring look, as if the man is unsure of how I am to react to what he might next say. I remind him, "I have asked for your straightforward opinion and insight, Chanson. You are a man of obvious success and experience in matters concerning the opposite sex, wherein I am…a man with none." I flush at the disclosure, and stare hard at Chanson's ear.

Chanson shakes his head, "I believe you shortchange yourself Monsieur Bouchard. You may not be well acquainted with the ways of women, but I would not want you as rival for a woman's affections! You would be a most formidable opponent!" He smiles at my look of mingled surprise and suspicion, saying, "In my experience, the fair sex are seldom as interested in how a man looks as how a man looks at them! You may have no interest in Anna, but my friend, you brought this upon yourself. No doubt you thought there could be no consequences…she was, after all, married… But…the spell you cast…it was a powerful one! The singing, and reading with her, the way you spoke to her…the attentions you paid her. Then to find she is not married but Gadreau's sister!" Chanson again shakes his head, this time in sympathetic regret. "You have been ill-served by Dame Fortune, my friend."

I hear the tiniest note of amusement in his sober consolation, and drop my brow in response. "And so…I am to enjoy the bed I have thus made myself, eh? I should accept Anna's advances…accept her fixation on my…?"

Dietré's hands come up in immediate denial... "_Non, never Monsieur_! I did _not_ say that at all! I merely wish to make the point it could be far more than just your face she finds so irresistible. You are obviously a gentleman in speech and manner, with enough savoir-faire and sophistication, not to forget the talent you have displayed at the piano, to enchant any woman."

Chanson grins, saying, "Why, Mademoiselle Butler says you could charm the Devil up from Hell with your voice alone."

I find it disturbing that Aislyne and Dietré discuss me.

"Monsieur..." Dietré's fingers tap firmly upon the packages he holds in emphasis; "There are things women find irresistible that might prove far worse, such as love for a man's wallet, or the promise of a rich widow's inheritance. Anna could be using you to make her life much easier. Perhaps she thinks in becoming your mistress she will be spared the hard work of being housekeeper."

I find agreeable the thought that Anna is just using me to improve her lot! How much better I could feel if this were true! "Chanson, do you think she is using me thus?" At his careful expression, I throw up my hands, saying, "I would be delighted if this were so!" Positively euphoric with relief, in fact!

He shudders eloquently. "Personally, I believe Anna is dangerously impulsive and selfish, and she has decided she wants you. Perhaps to spit in Mademoiselle Butler's eye, or because you have thrown the gauntlet at her feet by refusing her. And now she has become…" Chanson's shrug was eloquent..."obsessed."

After a moment he looks sideways at me saying, "Or...it could be you have carelessly stolen her heart with your manly form and gentleman's magic, and Anna Gadreau is helplessly in love with you. She cannot stop herself." He is deadly serious!

Surprised, I laugh... Dietré is not purposefully being humorous, but his words are artlessly amusing just the same. Setting my hand upon his shoulder, I say, "Dietré, my friend, I appreciate greatly your good sense and advice. You have given me much to ponder. Although…I fail to see anything 'helpless' about Anna Gadreau."

He mirrors my grip, and I enjoy the feel of his strong grasp upon my shoulder, the manifestation of the growing masculine bond between us.

Chanson declares, "Let us go back and demand our lunch from the wench, Anna! I am famished! And perhaps you should allow the Mademoiselle to look at your face. It may be time to whet your razor." His expression is clear; surely he realizes what the marks down my face are? I had not included the morning's events in my complaints against Anna, feeling unmanned enough by admission of my lack of amatory experience.

Having loaded ourselves with parcels and boxes, most of which are carried by poor Chanson, we return to our hotel. Dietré is quite warm by this time, and so we first return to his lodgings at the back of the hotel so that he may change into his customary casual attire. I await him by the door, in no great hurry to return to the suite. I can only pray Aislyne is there.

Xavier returns from attending to the horses, his smile tentative, as if he still expects me to grow fangs. I nod to him. "How are the horses, Thom?" My question is merely an attempt at friendly rapprochement with the boy, something that surprises me even as I offer it. I am rewarded with an enthusiastic recount of the morning, including Madame Butler's unfulfilled wish to go for a ride, with Chanson and myself joining her.

"I cannot ride, Monsieur, and although I do like the horses, I never want to sit atop one. However, I pulled the saddle boxes out…you can see them there, in front of the stableman's desk, safe as houses. He agreed to keep an eye on them." Thom's eyes shift, and he looks at his feet, saying, "But…I guess you decided to do something else, yes?" His expression sours, his brows meeting over his nose; doubtless he is wondering why I would snub the Mademoiselle so cruelly. After a moment he mumbles, "I should go lock them up again. Excuse me, Monsieur..." With a polite nod, Xavier turns his back, heading for the stable. I am aware I have lost the tiny bit of ground I might have made with the boy, and am strangely disquieted by his disapproval. I step away from the doorway to call him back.

"Thom! Mademoiselle Butler said nothing yet to me about her wish to ride. Do you think perhaps she means to do so this afternoon?" The boy stops, lifting his head to consider my supposition. When he turns to me to nod in agreement, his expression is again clear. "Well then Monsieur Bouchard, I'll just move the boxes to the back of Aminta's stall. No one will bother them there." Smiling again, he pulls his forelock, the rustic salute to one's superior, and heads off to the stables.

I realize I am smiling, wonderfully reassured. I am also beginning to appreciate how much effort is required in being an agreeable member of the human race.

Controlling my temper, particularly, has become a daily trial for me; this is due, of course, to Anna Gadreau, who chips away at my patience and thoroughly tests my resolve at every turn. There was a time when I would have given her good reason to fear for her life…would have freed the 'Ghost's' macabre style of enlightenment upon her at the very first of the physical insults she has inflicted upon me.

This very morning I was within a hairsbreadth of throttling her to cease the torment and close those sly, following eyes. At very least I wanted to lay hands upon her in ways she would not have found thrilling at all. I recalled Aislyne's reproachful expression …heard her voice reminding me…"_You know the difference between what is right and what is not_!"

I chose instead to express my anger by hurling my coffee cup at the fireplace, narrowly missing a wide-eyed Emanuel.

Anna assaulted me…my face…drawing her fingers roughly down the knotted, tender flesh of my right cheek. I have no idea if she meant it as some sadistic caress or punishment for my continued resistance to her charms, but it shocked as well as hurt. Sheer, unmindful rage was the immediate reaction…and I am thankful I held the cup of hot coffee in my hand. Spilling it across my shirt cuff and soaking the top of my right thigh with the hot liquid kept me from flying from my chair to lay hands upon her while in the first white-hot rush of anger.

That…and the memory of Aislyne's reprimand …

I divested myself of the remainder of the half-full cup in the most satisfying way I could think, the explosive shattering of the heavy stoneware against the granite front piece of the fireplace discharging completely any remaining thoughts of homicide. I nearly killed her brother, missing his head by the barest inch as he walked, unaware, past the hearth. Anna immediately began wailing, as she realized what she had set into motion…realized how close I had come to killing Emanuel with the heavy cup. She ran for her room, while I…well, I stood staring idiotically at Emanuel.

He was shaking his head, staring wide-eyed at the coffee dripping down the front of the mantle, and shards of blue-patterned Mason stoneware that littered the floor and carpet before the hearth.

Once I found my voice, I immediately apologized to him..."Emanuel…my God, man…I never meant…"

Emanuel waved his hands, saying, "Monsieur, it is _she_ who should apologize…to us both." His eyes sharpened upon my face, but he looked away quickly. The little man stretched to wipe at the coffee dripping from the granite and oak mantle with the towel in his hand. I awkwardly kneeled and began picking up pieces of the shattered cup, feeling the ache of ebbing adrenaline in my thigh and chest muscles, actually beginning to tremble with delayed reaction. _I could have killed him...it would have killed him! _

Emanuel immediately flew toward me, touching my shoulder carefully, his eyes wild. "Non…non! You must leave this to me, Monsieur! Please…._please__…" _His distress at my assistance was alarming…and I could not but wonder if he was dreading Butler's reaction to the preceding incident should she learn of it. I stood, and wishing to assure him in some way, awkwardly patted his shoulder. I left him to deal with the disorder and returned to my room, deeply disturbed by all that had happened in the last five minutes.

While dabbing at the coffee upon my sleeve, a drop of blood appeared on my cuff… I touched my cheek and my hand was awash in red… There was blood on the front of my vest…

It was upon examination of my face in the bath mirror, that I found blood dripping from four wide scores running straight down through the ruin of my cheek, two digging deep into the smooth, previously unmarred flesh of my jaw. Marks made by Anna's strong nails.

I cannot help but wonder if Aislyne Butler wishes me to fail in this new life. Why else does she keep this woman but to torment me?

***********

The remainder of the morning I kept both Anna and me busy, having contacted the hotel laundress and made arrangements for her services. Anna was strangely biddable, bobbing her head and using the words, "…yes, Mademoiselle…" and "…no, Mademoiselle…," as was entirely proper. It was an Anna unseen since the very first day of our acquaintance. Something had happened earlier…whether it had been between she and her brother or she and Bouchard…that had compelled a radical change in her attitude.

When Bouchard and Chanson had not returned by the time Emanuel brought up our noon meal, I began to worry. The urge to go find them…find _him_ was nearly overpowering. I tried to read, sat looking out the large bay window, finally choosing to start a letter to Louise for which I had not the focus to properly write, much less finish. As last resort I sat down at the piano, allowing my fingers to wander up and down the keys, wishing Emanuel and Anna would find somewhere else to go so I could _play_. They instead both sat at table, Anna mending shirts, and Emanuel flipping through the local newspaper.

I contented myself with running my fingers up the scales, doing so increasingly faster, until I spun out into fingering exercises of growing complexity. Helpless against my own compulsion to play, I launched into a elegant melody I learned early on as a piano student.

Anna began watching me; I could feel the very instant her eyes settled, narrowed with resentment, upon the side of my head.

Had I never mentioned I played the piano?

My fingers then wandered into "Leiberstraum", a favored selection, waltzed through several simple Chopin _divertimento_, and marched gamely up and down the keyboard playing a _gavotte_. Eventually I felt the breeze from Anna's wide skirts as she retreated angrily to her room. Her door closed somewhat firmly…

I did not much care. I was just warming up…

I became aware that Emanuel had folded his paper, setting it carefully in the middle of the table, and patiently awaited my attention. I reluctantly stilled my fingers upon the keys.

"Mademoiselle, I need to speak to the _concierge de hotel_ concerning an…ahhh …unimportant matter. I will be but a half-hour. Is this…?"

I waved him away, smiling. "Go. We are fine." Naturally meaning Anna and me. He bowed and departed. I sighed happily, and launched into a Haydn piano solo which I knew by heart.

Not even Anna's grim attention behind her door could diminish the elation I felt at again being at the keyboard. Eventually I pushed away all reserve and allowed my emotions to write the music. Swaying joyously to an explosion of rolling of chords and circuitously descending high notes, the composition poured from my heart whole-made. Lost in the feel of the music, alive only to the piano's obedient keys beneath my fingers, I closed my eyes and let my senses sing!

Only to shriek in terror and throw up my hands, therefore falling backward off the piano bench (taking it over with me) when I opened them again an indeterminate while later. Bouchard stood beside the piano, his face a study in avid attention.

Lying upon my back with knees hooked over the toppled bench, my skirts, naturally, flew up…rather down…to bunch at my hips. I grabbed my skirts and endeavored to throw them over my exposed flesh at least twice, while simultaneously attempting to kick the bench away so I might bring my legs down. Bouchard moved to stand beside the bench, where he frankly assessed my thrashing limbs. He chuckled.

I froze, at last realizing I was behaving like a panicked idiot. Staring up at Bouchard's amused expression I became aware of the others who had accompanied him into the suite, all of which had the good sense to remain at the opposite end of the suite's open room whilst enjoying the floorshow. I turned my head to glare, wherein Chanson and Xavier became profoundly involved with the tabletop, and Emanuel hurriedly bent to retrieve something off the floor.

The grinning beast above me murmured, "You rather resemble a beetle knocked to its back."

Pulling the bench from beneath my legs, he grabbed at my nearest hand and pulled me to sitting position, wherein I immediately successfully covered my legs. Breathlessly I panted, "Bouchard! You…you surprised me!" I allowed him to help me to my feet, wherein I then recalled his callus behavior while I lay helpless… that cool appraisal of my disarrayed person. Stepping outside of his supporting hold, I hid my scarlet cheeks by vigorously attending to the disorder of my skirt and shirtwaist. I could not stop from snapping, "You are no gentleman, sir, to…to stare at my…my legs so!" I straightened to pull my sleeves down; I was shocked again when he turned his face to me completely, to say, "I merely wished to see what other delights you were hiding, Butler."

I stared, horrified, at his right cheek…his jaw, all else forgotten. "My god, Bouchard …_what happened_? This looks very painful!" Reaching toward his face, a wash of emotion overwhelmed me as I recognized the wounds for what they were. "Who did this? **Who…**"

And then, of course,_ I knew… _

His face hardened at my look of stricken awareness, but his voice remained intimate, warm.

"You and I must go for a ride, Madame Butler, just you and I. I believe you wished to take your mare for a trot along a country road earlier, yes?"

I nodded. "Yes, of course…but these…these need attention, Bouchard. This is the kind of wound that becomes infected, and can disfigure terribly."

He laughed unpleasantly. "I find it hard to believe you could think this…" and he thrust the right side toward me, "…could be 'disfigured' more than it is, Madame!"

I expected no less from him. Nonetheless, I carefully touched his scarred, and freshly scored cheek. "I have grown fond of _this_ _face_, Monsieur, and care little for your disparagement of it." His expression remained ill-tempered, but there was a hint of something…surprise?…in his eyes. I dropped my hand, and looping my arm through his, coerced him to accompany me to the dining table where the other three men were. Naturally, he was too much the gentleman…so far…to force me to actually tow him, merely snapping, "It is not necessary, Butler."

Ignoring the air of ill-concealed amusement I found in Chanson's and Xavier's faces, I turned to Emanuel, who only appeared anxious. "Emanuel, please fetch lunch for these... gentlemen." I turned to look at Anna's closed door. "And see to it Anna spends the day _in her room_. I will be speaking with you both later." Emanuel Gadreau's face turned a subtle shade of gray. Good.

Bowing, he left. I did my best to hold off the inevitable guilt and regret… It was hard having to punish Emanuel for his sister's sins. "Xavier…would you please go help him?" I touched Thom's shoulder with my free hand, which I found went a long way toward cutting through his shyness. He bobbed his head and followed Emanuel through the door.

Chanson was watching me…his attention split between Bouchard's humorless demeanor, and my patently bogus cheer. Upon my turning to him, he simply said, "Mademoiselle?" and swallowed uneasily.

"Dietré, please join Monsieur Bouchard and me this afternoon on an…outing? On horseback, of course. I felt Bouchard's face turn to stare at me, felt his consternation without need of looking at him. "Naturally, you will both want to first eat, and dress accordingly."

Chanson nodded, shooting one reassuring look at Bouchard. "As you wish, Mademoiselle."

Again looking to Bouchard, I not surprised at all to see his mood had soured even further. "Please come, Monsieur. I will clean and dress these wounds, and then you must eat and change." He may have set his feet for an instant, but settled for one rude grunt, followed by an intelligible rumble of ungentlemanly cursing. Yet he followed me to my room. Once there, however, he closed the door.

"I would prefer you leave that open, Bouchard." Primly I folded my arms, chin leveled, hoping he would remain calm…but at his inarticulate growl of anger knew I had best simply get on with it...

"**I care little what ****you**** would prefer!** Why did you invite Chanson? Do you wish now to enlist an accomplice in your efforts to effect my utter derangement?"

Sighing, I knelt to retrieve my case from beneath the bed. I had not really hidden it, but was hoping to forestall random and opportunistic predation upon my bottle of whiskey. "Really, Bouchard…I would be quite wasting my time, would I not? I do not believe Chanson would have anything to do with me if that was my game." Vainly I wiggled the latch snap that held the spring lock in place. "This is sticking badly. I need to oil it again…"

"Allow me." Bouchard reached over and tapped the box directly above the hasp, and…it sprang open. I glared, teeth set, at the traitorous latch, then shot a suspicious glance upon the man who was again watching me whilst I crawled about on the floor. "Have I any _uisce beatha__ (whiskey) _left?"

His response was a toothy sneer. "I am not _that_ fond of spirits, Madame."

"Good; it leaves more for me. Let us adjourn to the bath where I can wash and rinse the wounds with these." I straightened, arms folded around bottles and sterile gauze, scissors, and linen pads. Before I could begin to rise to my feet, Bouchard was beside me, his hands beneath my elbows, lifting me. I felt a shiver race down my spine at his closeness…my heart rate rising at the touch of his hands.

The internal voices set up a howl of ridicule and derisive laughter. Turning, I looked at Bouchard's face, and belatedly realized he was speaking. "What?"

His brow flew up, and for a long moment we simply stared at one another. He finally canted his head, to say, "Perhaps you should merely tell me what to do…I am quite capable…" He gestured vaguely at his face.

"No, no...please…allow me to do this. I will not repeat how very sorry I am… but…"

I had to stop, unable to speak further without doing or saying something so foolish I would never forgive myself. I could not believe he would in any way welcome my panicked admissions of feeling overwhelmed and blind-sided by so much that had happened in the past few days.

I led a hesitant Bouchard to the large, tiled bath attached to my room, and sat him upon a small stool, covering his chest and neck to right beneath his chin with a towel. Handing him an empty basin, I told him, "You will need to hold this for me…" and positioned it just below his chin. His response was not that of a gentleman at all.

I cleansed his face using the anti-suppurative soap and a sterile pad of gauze-covered cotton, working into every small crevasse and cleaning the bloody lines through his flesh, doing my best to be gentle. "I'm sorry if I hurt you…I do need to be thorough with the cleaning."

He shrugged, his eyes closed. "I have survived worse, Aislyne."

After rinsing his face with warm water dosed with oil of lavender, I applied a herbal antiseptic containing several fragrant essences including eucalyptus, comfrey, lemon, and tincture of silver in distilled water. Despite it's mild ingredients, it did sting on the open wounds. Bouchard hissed through his teeth as I bathed his jaw in the solution; several times he seemed upon the verge of cursing aloud.

"I am sorry if this…"

"Get on with it, Aislyne. I will survive!"

Using another pad of sterile gauze and cotton, I thoroughly blotted his face dry, as careful in my attentions to dry the scarred upper cheek and temple, as I was to cleanse them. Strangely, Bouchard seemed to enjoy this, canting his head to offer me complete access, his eyes closed and face relaxed in enjoyment. I could not help but be gratified by his pleasure; but it was his lips…the odd little upward roll to the upper…the generously cut bottom…the way they parted as he relaxed…that affected me in unfamiliar ways.

The urge to lay my lips against his…to suck upon that upward curve…

Removing the basin from his hands, I dumped it into the sink, and swept the towel from beneath his chin. I briskly directed him back to my room, requesting he lie supine upon my bed, with his head to the foot. "That way we shall have the full light on your right side." In silent submission, he did so.

Forcing my attention from the pounding of my heart, and the cheerful taunts of the inner chorus, I again knelt upon the floor next to the bed. Applying the carbolated crème was a messy task when applied to open wounds. I took the opportunity to study Anna's work, the four lines of divots ripped from the cartilaginous scar tissue, and the two bloody furrows continuing down to the bottom of his jaw. "I could easily throttle that woman."

The words were murmured without thought, earning a mocking, owl-eyed look from Bouchard. "My dear Aislyne! To hear this from you!"

I ignored him. "I cannot abide physical bullies…and this is the work of one! She is a demanding, ill-tempered little _**gaorsach**_!" (slut) Gritting my teeth, I dabbed gently at the double score that traveled through the formerly pristine flesh of his lower cheek and jaw. "I am done, sir, but this will need retreated tonight, and at least twice daily for a few days."

"How I look forward to it!" He grimaced and as I bent to collect the gauze scraps and recap the bottles, Bouchard sat up on the bed, his legs hanging behind where I knelt, replacing the top upon the jar of crème. He remained there, silent, while I set the bottles aside for future use, then closed and pushed the heavy box beneath the foot of my bed.

I stood…without offer of help this time, and leaned over to pick up the basin, only to have Bouchard grab it and stand up in one fluid move. He all but shoved it into my hands, his expression tightly wolfish. "In your little chat with Anna this afternoon, you must express to her my hope that my flesh beneath her nails causes her less discomfort than it did me in putting it there." Bouchard spoke lightly, but I heard the bitterness and reproach, very clearly directed toward me.

He strode from my room, leaving the door open behind him.

***********

I groomed both Aminta and John thoroughly despite the odd looks I received from the stable boys, hoping the repetitive tasks would serve to shut off my fretful thinking…in vain. Bouchard's parting words were kerosene thrown upon the smoldering embers of my own burgeoning self-doubts. I had reached the point in my thoughts where self-examination had become self-castigation. All hope of walking away from the assignment…and Jerrod Bouchard…unscathed was gone. My goal had become naught but survival; to see him safely to Livorno, and his feet set upon the correct path.

The walls I had so very long ago built about my heart…that knotted nexus of life's most injurious emotions!…proved neither high nor strong enough to protect me from Jerrod Bouchard. The passions he provoked in this dry, scrawny breast were heretofore unknown and terrifying…I had _never before_ felt the urge to…to do the things I now _incessantly_ thought to do with this man. In fact, to paraphrase a line from Shakespeare, at times it seemed '_my wits were fled, leaving me ruled by but one_'.

And _why_ had I elected to keep Anna Gadreau with us despite her constant press of attentions upon Bouchard? I knew she spent her free time…of which she had a surfeit…watching Bouchard as he worked at the piano, while he and I dined… whenever he was not behind his closed bedroom door, alone. It would have been a minor annoyance had she expressed her infatuation as innocently, as sweetly as she had at first appeared. It was the open expression of predatory possessiveness upon that perfect visage, the increasing jealousy toward anyone who had Bouchard's attention that was disturbing, for both Bouchard and me.

I could admit the reason she remained, but to myself…no one else.

How else to solve the problem of being an unmarried female accompanied by three unrelated men? I needed the company of either an abigail or a senior female to act as chaperone. Without Anna...?

And why did I seek the high moral ground _now_, when I had spent my entire adulthood walking the lower paths with the patients I cared for. Never before had I lamented the fact my vocation left me bereft of feminine worth, amoral, as lacking in modesty and chastity as the women who strutted down Rue Saint Jean, looking for 'business' in the open bistros and saloons.

I certainly lamented it now!…all but cursed aloud at the unfairness inherent to the supposition that in caring for those broken in mind and spirit, I had somehow lost my maidenhood…my essential innocence and purity! I was unfit to be any man's wife!

Leaning my head against his sun-warmed neck, I asked the patient animal, "John, could I demand more from Jerrod than a short-term affair? Do I expect to be more to him than merely his armed nanny? More than his lover? Do I wish to be…?" I did not finish...John said nothing.

Breaking into near-hysterical laughter, I worried John enough to send him moving sideways one step, after which he turned his head to see if my braying spell might have meant a cookie or apple for him. Aminta nickered in pseudo-concern.

The closest stable boy stared fixedly at the madwoman talking to her horses and laughing _fortissimo _without reason.

Sighing, I administered a large serving of reality to said madwoman. An ice bath mayhap would have proved kinder…

_Such thinking_ was not realistic. No one had ever found me sufficiently attractive to consider any sort of conjugal relationship; Bouchard, despite his elevation above the usual rough cut of his sex, was no different. I was stuffy and plain, a fine companion. I was just another Anna, pining for that which was not within my reach.

And there was Bouchard's future…that which would come to him because he _deserved it_; I had no doubt his talents and intelligence would carry him far among the artistically enlightened. He was a man born to rank and privilege, however his years of self-exile were spent. I had found him to be a gentleman, with wit and charm, well-read and apparently well-traveled, an interesting conversationalist, an enthralling speaker. He had devoured the box of Paris newspapers and journals, along with my stack of women's magazines and several of my books, all in the short time we'd traveled together. He was a man of action, of passion and intensity, with an intellectual curiosity he seemed to bend toward everything around him. He would not be penniless or lonely for very long.

How could I think I might be the woman, the lover and wife, Bouchard would ultimately seek, when that woman would need to share his life within the rigidly proper and confined society of any civilized place?

_**I could not do it.**_ I would be an embarrassment, a pariah, a drag to his advancement. I would not be happy within the narrow restrictions inherent in any elevated society, unable to abide the hypocrisy and sheer boredom. I had seen what life was like for the women who lived in the glass houses of the rich and successful. I wanted no part of it!

Far better I admire him from afar. Better a broken heart, than to be a ruined, forsaken woman…or one trapped within the windowless corridors of 'what was proper' by the bonds of love. He would hate me for failing him, for holding him down. I would merely hate myself more…

A sense of vast relief swept over me…I had again set reason and logic to the task of guiding my feet…if not my heart…and thereby set my course for that most salubrious of destinations. I would not come away from this assignment as rich as I might, but if de'Chagny was any kind of honorable man, he would pay me my due...more than enough to set me free.

My future decided, I needed only to start Bouchard upon his, which would be my priority upon reaching Livorno.


	24. Chapter TwentyThree

Chapter Twenty Three

Aminta took great exception to the long duster I wore over my riding habit as protection against the dust and hair that soon filled the air around us. Both horses were losing their longer haircoat; nesting birds quickly made off with the handfuls I pulled from the brushes time after time. I finally conceded defeat and settled for getting the mud and dirt off, picking out their feet, and wiping out their eyes, ears and noses. Both horses were very fresh, and though they enjoyed being brushed and fussed over, neither were particularly obedient while being lead and handled. I was afraid John would be a handful for any rider if he chose to do so, and despite Vicomtess de'Chagny's statement Bouchard was a capable rider, I was not going to take any chances with his safety.

Having the tack boxes for our respective mounts readily to hand, it took little time for me to tack both horses. As a child, it had been my job to 'kit up' the horses so my brothers could ride them around the two-mile grass track for exercise and training. At that time I was eight years old, and stood on a bale of hay to saddle and bridle up to a dozen horses some mornings. These days I could comfortably saddle any horse while standing flatfooted on terra firma.

Aminta took a minute of her valuable time to remind me of how difficult she could be, pawing and snorting, swinging her butt at John, and generally being a feisty git. Giving John to an agreeable young man to hold, I walked Aminta to the middle of the wide grassy lot between the stables and hotel, and attached a thirty-foot longline to the loop set at the bottom of her noseband. Whirling the last few feet in my right hand as a motivator, I sent her to the end of the line, and put her to work on a wide circle, reminding _**her **_of how much fun walk, trot and canter could be when it was only going in a circle and at my direction.

Arabians are intelligent, and Arabian mares all the more; Aminta understood quickly and settled down to listening to me nicely. Once her ear and eye stayed on me, I called her in and handed her off for John.

John was similarly schooled so I could ascertain his mood and temperament. After a short ten-minute drill in all three gaits in both directions, I felt confident that despite Bouchard's relative lack of muscle tone (admitted or not), John would be a gracious and obedient mount. Halfway through John's exercise, a deep (and thrilling) voice drolly averred, "Mademoiselle Butler, you need but _ask_me to behave and I will; no running in circles required." Dietré and Thom were highly amused, as were several bystanders. I gave Bouchard a measuring look, as if to speculate how he would do at the end of the longline, and was caught off guard by the number of men who were watching me make a quiz of myself. I finished John's exercise with a great deal less _entalage**.**_

Bouchard's presence, dressed appropriately for riding, cheered me more than I would have ever admitted. I brought John in for a jowl rub and a piece of sweet biscuit, and tightened the girth before handing him to his rider. "He is as tame as a puppy, Monsieur. I look forward to our ride."

I collected Aminta from the hefty young man who held her, giving him a few extra coins as reparation for the nip Aminta had given his hand, and led her to the mounting block set beside the stable gate. I was the first one up, followed by Dietré upon a tall, rangy sorrel gelding with sleepy eyes. Bouchard mounted from the ground, settling into the saddle and sending John forward as if he had ridden him every day for years, one gloved hand soon resting upon the gelding's shoulder in companionable connection, a genuine smile stretching his face.

Walking generally south on cobblestone streets of that soon became naught but packed earth, we finally encountered a rough track that lead into an expanse of unmarked parkland. This bordered the Saône River heading south towards its noisy convergence with the Rhône.

From the time we left the stable yard, my mare took exception to everything, jigging and eye-rolling at bushes and trees, and finally Dietré's gelding, for whom she made ugly faces and finally attempted to kick when Chanson rode too close. After I gave Aminta a sharp, verbal setdown for her missish behavior, she confined her dislike for Chanson's mount to ear-pinning, something both Chanson and Bouchard, astride steadier mounts, looked upon doubtfully.

I assured them I had things well in hand, settling the mare with a few soft words and a rub. Once the track had become wide enough, we sent our horses into a canter, crisscrossing through the park, jumping several low rock walls and a few clear tree falls. By the time we'd reached the outside edge of the parkland, Aminta was in much better temper, and I felt ready to relax and enjoy the ride.

Bouchard rode with the fluid grace of a true horseman, proving there is nothing as handsome as a man who rides in perfect unity with his mount. John, despite his laid-back demeanor, was a touch mettlesome simply because Aminta was acting up, but Jerrod kept him on the bit and in good order, doing so without abuse or temper.

Dietré's mount, unfortunately, was proving to be uninterested in expending any energy beyond a slow, rough lope, refusing all but the smallest jumps, and becoming more tiresome by the minute. Dietré rode well, but he was not enjoying himself when every step above walk had to be coaxed from the beast with drumming heels. Although the gentlemen started a conversation whilst we were within the town limits, it was impossible to continue when Bouchard needs must double back to complete a sentence. Dietré's mount grew all the ornerier as the distance from his stall and hay increased.

Dietré finally said, "I am thinking we will soon simply fall upon our side, like a top that has lost velocity past the point of staying upright!" The gelding seemed to understand Chanson's words, dropping his head as if to seek a soft spot upon which to collapse. Bouchard made sympathetic noises to the effect Chanson would be exhausted from riding the beast should they go even a half mile more. Dropping my chin I smiled at Chanson, and murmured, "Chanson, are you…exhausted?"

He shot a dark look toward Jerrod. "_Oui, mademoiselle, absolument!_"

"Then we shall return to the hotel. Perhaps they have a more suitable horse." I turned Aminta to head back, only to have Bouchard move his horse into my path. "This was the only horse available, Aislyne. Seems unnecessary…a shame, really. The day will be gone before we've gotten even this far again..."

"But…" I turned to look at Dietré, who seemed unable to meet my eyes.

Bouchard's voice was smooth, with just a hint of the dictorial. "Let us continue. It is far too nice an afternoon to waste, Mademoiselle Butler."

I could not stop one suspicious glance between the two of them, but expressions of purest innocence shone from both faces. I sent Chanson back to the hotel; again as if he understood, the gelding, rejuvenated, switched ends and broke into a bone-jarring trot for home. Chanson barely kept his seat when his horse reversed; having kept it, I'm sure he could not sit it without discomfort.

Waving my crop, I loudly wished him joy of his return trip to the hotel. I smiled widely for Bouchard. "Dietré is indeed a good friend, Bouchard. I hope you made it worth his suffering."

Not awaiting his reply, I sent Aminta into a smooth, swinging trot, no longer interested in talking whatsoever. Maybe Bouchard would have liked to initiate a conversation regarding Anna, and bully me into sending her back to Paris on the next train. Perhaps he thought to further defend himself against my implication of conspiracy between he and Chanson. I did not consider this to be a salubrious time or place for such dreary conversation and chose instead to put my mind between Aminta's ears. Right now Aminta was letting me know how ecstatic she was to be away from fences and walls that obstructed her view and cut short her travel. Her head was relaxed into the bit, trusting my hands completely; she was certainly willing to do whatever I asked of her, especially if it entailed showing her heels to her pasture mate.

We rode south well over two miles on a soft, straight stretch of country road, conversation nonexistent as we lost ourselves in the bliss of riding in open country. Eventually we again turned back north as the clear afternoon light was beginning to fade, and set our horses into a gentle lope. Aminta was still fizzing with the urge for speed, requesting constantly to be allowed to push on into a gallop. So it was we soon began a romp runaway…Bouchard quickly sent John in pursuit, intent on a rescue, only to find the mare…nor I…willing to be caught. I am ashamed to say we raced both horses flat out.

I eventually developed a sense of self-preservation and requested sensible Aminta slow when she'd had enough, which she did well before we again reached the parkland.

Upon slowing to a walk, I nearly fell off Aminta, laughing in reaction to the wind going up my nose. I cannot help it…it is one of my failings that a hard gallop sends me into whoops afterwards. Bouchard was laughing heartily at his governess' silly behavior; it did not help we both were liberally spattered with mud upon our faces and clothing. Feeling utterly foolish, I drew a mustache across my upper lip with a particularly wet glob, and again succumbed at the incredulous look upon Bouchard's face, followed by a lopsided grin. Sidling John closer, he leaned in to me and presented his face. "And...now, me."

Obligingly I drew a pencil-thin line in smooth mud across his top lip, first pulling my glove from my hand to improve technique. When I giggled at the result, he grasped my hand and kissed it lightly, saying, _**"**__Pour vous, je suis la toile__,_" (For you, I am the canvas.) mugging shamelessly with a roll of the eyes and blowing flutter of his upper lip.

We laughed, smiled at one another, and then…I could not look away from those summer colored eyes…wanted only to rest there, held within his warm, appreciative gaze, accepting the inextricable bond between us without struggle, without fear. And within my heart was the answer, the echo to his words: "_Pour vous, je suis l'armature…" _(For you, I am the frame…) It was many racing heartbeats before I could shift my leg to move Aminta away, literally pulling myself free of the spell he unthinkingly cast.

"We had best be moving or we will lose the light. I have no wish to be riding rough ground in the dark." I tried for briskly matter-of-fact and achieved huskily breathless. Aminta moved off, perhaps sensing my agitation, giving me a moment to collect my scattered wits, and cool my hot face.

Jerrod Bouchard said nothing, and I avoided looking at him, frightened of the thoughts that persisted despite my iron resolve to protect myself, _to protect him_. We rode in silence through the parkland, staying upon the cart track. The lowering sun threw bars of golden light across our path, filtered through the linden, oak, and ash trees that stood between us and the river, just beginning to blush at the tips of their naked branches with the promise of spring. The breeze was rich with the scent of last year's leaves and this year's buds, with a heavy hint of rain. The sky far to the east was the Russian blue of an advancing storm.

Upon reaching the outskirts of Lyon, Bouchard did something entirely marvelous; he sang a haunting _**duan**_, the likes of which I have not heard since my family moved from Ireland. Obviously he translated from the original Gaelic on the fly, but Jerrod's voice made it as liquid and lyrical as any _arrane sooree_ (love song):

_"When the cold of winter comes  
Starless night will cover day  
In the veiling of the sun  
We will walk in bitter rain  
But in Dreams  
I hear your name  
And in Dreams  
We will meet again.  
When the seas and mountains fall  
And we come to end of days  
In the dark I hear a call  
Calling me there  
I will go there  
And back again."  
_  
I do believe Aminta was as taken with Bouchard's singing as I; for the first time ever, she stayed beside John, without request from her rider. She had one ear on Bouchard throughout his song. At the last haunting note, a sense of peaceful companionship again fell between us, to linger for the remainder of the ride. By silent agreement, we did not speak, unwilling to break the afternoon's spell.

Bouchard was flagging by the time we reached the stable yard, as our ride had lasted over three hours. His fatigue was obvious to me by the stiffness in his back and jaw; I could think of no way to persuade him to allow me to untack and care for both horses without butting heads with his manly pride. Nonetheless, we were soon done, damp, mud-splattered and exhausted. We parted company at the back of the hotel, where Chanson appeared to aid Bouchard in removing his muddy boots, incidentally saving me from saying anything foolish. I pulled my own without help while seated on the back stairs across from the kitchen, whilst two kitchen maids watched with dull-witted curiosity. I ordered our supper there, at the kitchen door, from the kitchen _commis_, who smirked at me throughout the sous-chef's recital of the evening menu. After giving the offensive young man a quelling glare, I climbed four flights up to the fourth floor, unwilling to walk through the hotel to the elevator, muddy and in stocking feet.

The suite was empty…there was no sign of Emanuel, and no sound came from Anna's room. I wondered briefly if they had fled, and decided to check the servant's room for their belongings…later. Our planned meeting was weighing heavily upon my mind. I could not imagine it was going to be pleasant; I had no idea how I was going to look either of them in the eye and say…"I am sending you back to Paris."

As I stood chilled, depressed, and patently procrastinating before the cold fireplace, Dietré, Thom and Jerrod's voices heralded the landing of the elevator upon our floor…poor Thom was nearly falsetto with terror, having, no doubt, been forced to take the clanking, insecure-appearing contraption. Chanson began, in rapid-fire French, to make fun of Bouchard's '_moustache magnifique'_…

With horror I slapped my hand to my own upper lip…and felt the cracked line of dried mud there. I ran to my room before I, too, suffered the same teasing; no doubt Bouchard was having enough trouble explaining my artwork. After a moment I sat upon the bed and had a fit of the giggles, remembering the young apprentice cook's struggle to keep from laughing outright. How extremely absurd I must have appeared!

I took a quick bath to wash off the mud, and dressed plainly for the evening meal, which was hot tomato bisque with warm rolls and fruit preserves, delivered complete with a vase of hothouse rosebuds by the hotel kitchen. I gave a verbal message to the kitchen boy with Chanson's aid, asking he deliver it _**personally**_ to the young _commis_, thanking him for his excellent service and superb self control. I did not explain myself to Chanson.

Bouchard retired to his room immediately, where I suspect he had a nap. He later refused his supper; I sent it in via Chanson with the demand he eat or I'd be in to feed it to him. I did not follow up on the threat, wondering if he thought me naught but a rough-tongued _briogach cailleach_. (mean-spirited old woman) I spent several moments berating myself for the fingerpainting that had caused him embarrassment, convinced I had also overreacted to our 'moment', that I was no better than Anna with my mooning and touching…

Exhausted and miserable, I retired to my bed soon thereafter, and heard not a sound the night through. Dietré and Thom were sitting at table, drinking wine and playing cards by candlelight when I went to my room.

_Author's note: The song is originally Gaelic and far too old to know who wrote it. _

*****************

I awake to the growl of thunder accompanied by a sudden rush of cold air upon my face, borne through the windows at the head of my bed. I had opened the window sashes…just a foot or so…the night before, wishing to extend the sensation of wide open space, and the blessing of fresh, cool air upon my face. Now the air is bracingly cold, heavy with moisture, and the rain is pounding off the sill to fall inside on the bed, my pillow, the floor. Regretfully, I reach through the ornate iron rails of the bed to pull both windows closed. It is pitch black outside, with only the brief blinks of distant lightning providing a perspective of height and distance through the glass. The rainfall redoubles, sheeting against the outside of the window panes, and I pull the drapery closed, chilled at the sight. There will be no idyllic rides in the country with Aislyne today…

My guess is it is still an hour or so before true dawn, discounting the coalsack clouds and heavy weather. My pocket watch is on the nightstand, but I am not willing to sunder the warm cocoon of my quilts again, only to find I should still be asleep…nor am I ready to leave my bed anyway, sleep or naught. Burrowing deeper I forsake my chilly, damp pillow for the one I stole from Butler's bed on the Pullman. It has spent the night wrapped in my arms, as it has every night since leaving our cattlecar Pullmans.

I realize my fixation on the pillow is due to my fascination of the woman. The pillow carries her scent, of rose and chamomile, with perhaps a hint of the Pears soap with which she washes her hair. I have been most careful to hide it in my luggage during the day so the maids do not sully it with new linen. As it was purchased new just prior to our boarding the de'Chagny cars, only she has rested upon it since it was pulled from it's brown paper wrapping. I actually watched Anna prepare Aislyne's bed, not two minutes after I first stepped onto the front Pullman; I watched her make the bed, slipping the new pillows from their packing.

My feelings for Aislyne Butler swing from the salacious, remembering the taut flesh of her breast and belly beneath my grasping, angry hands…to the worshipful, upon seeing her astride her evil-tempered mare: Artemis Hippolaitis the horse goddess, come to life. And then, somewhere within the midst of all this, is the growing conviction she is something else that I am missing entirely, that it wastes time to think of her this way or that. Far easier to describe the sunlight, or the storm raging outside, as she is as changeable…as indefinable.

_As surprising…_

I have never seen a woman ride astride before today. In Asia and the Middle East, women never ride; a horse is owned and used by a man, just like his women, and they do not mix. But here, in Europe, women do ride, yet it is aside, their limbs demurely pressed together…or in a carriage, cart or a wagon. When Aislyne threw her leg over the mare's back, settled herself onto the saddle…I…I blushed…I was utterly scandalized! Yet I watched as she did just as I did, setting her seat to the middle of her horse, finding the far stirrup, gently positioning her hands upon the reins to bring her mare upon the bit, then stroking her neck in affection. This was a horsewoman, and this was how she rode, and it was as natural…as correct…for her to ride this way as for me to do so.

I thus swallowed my shock, and if Chanson's expression mirrored my own for a moment or two, I could forgive him, although I did glare at him fiercely, which unfortunately only made him grin.

It was the dozen or so of onlookers I would not forgive. No one spoke a word, and that meant too clearly every eye was on her. I put each and every one of them to the sword in my bloody, violent thoughts, leaving an imaginary massacre of sliced and dismembered bodies behind us. It was the only way I could follow her from that stable yard knowing her legs…Merciful Allah give me strength!… were quite clearly wrapped about that grey mare's fat body.

Of course, to find her engaged in horse training while a dozen men watched was also vexing, although there was nothing remarkable in what she was doing. It was the idea she was being examined, scrutinized…and quite avidly, too…by a crowd of lack-wits and scoundrels that heated my blood.

Chanson was of the opinion she did it only to save me from being dumped by an over-fresh horse, information that did nothing to improve my attitude. I threatened to bloody his nose for the implication…and of course, recanted immediately thereafter. Had I then any idea of the spectacle to come, I would have knocked him down in order to hamstring the entire expedition!

Comes the whispery voice of my inner hedonist_,_ _"But, no…no, that would never have done! Think of what we would have missed!"_

I spend several moments in pleasant recollection of the afternoon…the feel of rushing air against the skin of my naked face, the surging power of the magnificent animal beneath me as we hurtle stone fences and deadfalls.

The fire of her glorious hair as it escapes the bounds of hat and scarf...and the elegant strength of her wrists grasping the reins. The intoxicating sight of her lying upon her horse, her long legs curled tight to it's sides as we thunder side by side down the muddy lane…

The rich alto ring of her laughter...so infectious, and soon I, too am laughing helplessly. It is the sight of her face…alight with excitement, cheeks rosy from our mad gallop…that nearly pulls me from my horse. I want to drag her off her saddle and kiss the flushed spots along her cheekbones and chin, and finally those sweet, merry lips. I want to set her radiant hair free from the hat, scarf, and pins that contain it so I might wind my hands in its glossy length.

Fascinated as she paints mud across her lip, I cannot do else but offer my face. I want her to touch me, even if it means looking foolish… I have never been a frivolous man, and I do not remember having a childhood. Yet with Aislyne, I will play the fool, if only to hear her laugh, and see the flash of humor in her eyes again.

A sparkle that has been missing for several days…

Yes, my Butler has been brooding far too much, her spirits low, and I know it is due to the situation between Anna Gadreau and me…really, because of me.

Chanson is of the opinion I have brought this upon myself, by giving Anna unwise attention. Having given the issue much thought, I do not agree…I have brought this upon Aislyne, and I can see no way to make amends, to make things right.

Sighing, I pull her pillow against my face, careful to lay only my left side there. Her gentle reproof…"_I have grown fond of this face_"…resonates strangely in another voice; there is a sense of _déjà vu _to her cupping my right cheek, lending it a emotional significance that affects me greatly. I have searched my memories and find nothing…no other face to match the ghostly echo…no one else who would have touched me thus.

…_**a loving touch…**_

It was certainly not my mother. Then…who?

Another puzzle, another mystery to add to those gathered about Aislyne Butler. Who is this woman?

And how could I have thought her plain?

********

Nadir Kahn was impressed; he had not experienced a rainstorm like this since his two-year sabbatical to Kashmir, India, hunting sambar in the Pir Pinjal Mountain Range. The yearly monsoon had been a novel experience for a man who had grown up where water from the sky was a gift that came seldom and in small quantity. In India he had discovered it was actually possible to drown while standing on high ground.

The weather that had greeted him upon disembarking from the passenger train from Paris was strongly reminiscent of the summer monsoons of Southern Asia. The downpour...more of a 'sidepour' due to the strong, gusty winds...made it impossible to see beyond the inside of the fiacre he had hailed at the rail station, and he had serious doubts that the driver was able to see where they were going. Hopefully the horse could.

Upon first disembarking, Kahn had immediately inquired of several clerks at the ticket station concerning the best way to locate two or three private cars, and was told there were many such cars awaiting return of owners, or awaiting a return trip home. He then gave the names 'Butler', 'Bouchard', and de'Chagny...which still meant nothing. The last clerk became testy with questioning, and told Kahn the Stationmaster might be returning that afternoon, and perhaps he would like to wait and speak to him?

Kahn had no interest in standing about the Gere de Perrache Lyon for several hours awaiting the possible arrival of the Stationmaster. He instead hailed a fiacre from the covered entrance of the huge, noisy station, and gave the driver the address of his first destination.

Abrigaun had given Kahn one small bit of information that could help him locate Erik's party. Aislyne Butler possessed a letter of credit acceptable at three of the major banking establishments in France and Italy, which was to be used for the withdrawal of emergency funds. Since it was apparent the party was stranded in Lyon and would not wish to stay in rail cars until the weather cleared at the higher elevations...a circumstance that caused Kahn to wonder who between Abrigaun and de'Chagny had made such an brainless miscalculation...looking for them at hotels seemed the wisest course of action.

The Banc France building was located in the financial district just off the mainland Rhône docks in a very old part of the city. The streets were narrow to the point of being dangerous for carriage and pedestrian both, but at least Nadir was able to exit the carriage and gain the Banc entrance without getting soaked. His business stated to the unctuous young clerk at the counter, Kahn soon found himself ushered into the elegant quarters of Monsieur Yehiel Hyram Cohen, Banc France Senior Officer.

After much back slapping, reminiscing, and ego massage, Monsieur Cohen was happy to offer news of his dealings with the lovely Mademoiselle Butler. Of course, much unrelated talk would come first, but the fact he and Nadir were old friends assured a salubrious outcome, i.e. the truth as Cohen knew it.

They adjourned to a nearby restaurant, accessed via one of the dark narrow tunnels…_traboule_…that riddled this part of Lyon, where Cohen had immediately shed his sober, sharp-eyed bank officer persona and became 'Hymie' Cohen, the youngest son of a Jewish potato farmer from Russia. Over an excellent meal, carefully prepared 'kosher' for the many Jewish clientele who worked in the area, Kahn worked to dislodge…gently…what he needed to know concerning the de'Chagny's 'uncle' and his companion/nurse, Aislyne Butler.

Old 'Hymie' seemed taken with the mademoiselle, having spent over an hour with her, discussing contingency plans and concerns for the trip to Livorno. "That one...she is one sharp _matza_, and her legs..._oy_!...to her ears! A real _langer lucksh_, my friend… I am not surprised that you are tracking after such a _shayner maidel_. Although…is she not a little tall for you, my friend?"

Kahn laughed, waving his hands before him. "No, no, Hymie, I am not interested in the Butler woman in quite that way. She is traveling with a client, and I need to make contact with him."

"Nadir, my _boychik_ friend. For you, I had such hopes." Hymie's face attained a lugubrious expression and he rolled his head to his shoulder and shrugged, hands afloat, saying, "My friend, with you it is always work, work, work!" Shrugging, Hymie added, "Of course, the _sheska_ was a bit of an _alteh moid_; she was thirty if she was a day…too old for a vigorous man like yourself, eh? You…you need a real _kaverte_, a youngster, someone who will give you many '_kinderlekh_, shine your _shvantz_ often, then care for you when you are an old _fotz_!"

Nadir joined his friend in laugher, but the subject was secretly a sore one. His wife and son had been gone for many years…and still he mourned…

Hymie, however, had regained the inquisitive mien that was his usual expression, and he resumed his unconscious grilling of Kahn, "So, you are needing to talk to the _goyim_ gent who is de'Chagny's uncle by marriage to the... um...opera singer?" He winked lasciviously.

"Yes, my friend. And despite Christine's humble lineage, the Vicomtess has proven to be an excellent wife and mother, a woman of beauty, virtue, and sophisticated grace. In a word, a blessing upon the Vicomte. I would like to think you could forget her past and speak of her always as just de'Chagny's wife, my good friend?"

Kahn's gentle reprimand did not ruffle any feathers. Monsieur Kohen patted Kahn's hand, saying, "Forgive me, Nadir. Never did I mean to cast aspersions upon the lady."

Nadir bowed his head briefly, and then folded his hands together, the prior topic forever closed. "So, what can you tell me...?"

"Yes, yes." Hymie rubbed his mouth with one finger, eyeing the dark-skinned Easterner narrowly. "Nadir, my friend, I smell sex and intrigue…and money…lots of money! Do you care to share the story with an old friend?" Yehiel Hyram Cohen had an insatiable appetite for information. He collected it as others collected money…or gold. It was rumored that he had an information gathering force that rivaled that of _La Sûreté Nationale _in talent and number. And he delighted in taking the tiniest hint of gossip or rumor and running it down to the absolute conclusion.

"Hymie, the one person who knows best the story of de'Chagny's uncle, Jerrod Bouchard, was standing in your office several days ago. You missed your chance to get the entire story then." Kahn smiled innocently, and hoped that Hymie Cohen would not smell the red herring Kahn had just handed him. Better to have him thinking of the beautiful mademoiselle than the mysterious uncle.

Eventually, the gentlemen walked back through the dark _traboule_ to the bank, and again made themselves comfortable in Cohen's office. Therein Cohen disclosed the whereabouts and general situation, as Mademoiselle Butler had related, to Kahn. Cigars were enjoyed, and a carefully worded pact made over a glass of cognac. Nadir was confident that Cohen could be trusted to allow him to pick the time to contact Bouchard and Butler, and not give the news away that Kahn was seeking them, should the mademoiselle or Bouchard visit Cohen again.

Exhausted, Nadir Kahn again entered the fiacre and sent the driver to a small shop on the Rue Marignan. He spent twenty minutes talking with an old acquaintance there, whose information gave him much peace of mind. Rewarding the man liberally for his services, and taking advantage of a break in the deluge, Kahn returned to his cab. With a sigh of resignation well leavened with relief, he directed the cabdriver to the Hotel Le Courbusier.

Cabs and private carriages clogged the portico for the hotel, the affluent and not so affluent trying to avoid getting wet. After a quarter hour awaiting a chance to join the queue to the sheltered entrance, Nadir requested the driver get as close as he could to the front street entrance, and then paid him generously. Exiting the cab at a trot carrying his bag, he angled his large, expensive umbrella against the wind-driven rain, wherein the underside bowed ominously...and collapsed, dumping its load of icy water onto his face. His shoes had filled the instant he stepped from the cab to the flooded street.

Walking through the brass and glass doors of Le Courbusier soaked to the skin, his umbrella a tangled mess at his heel, Nadir reflected on the danger and difficulty his twenty-year friendship with one socially maladroit young magician had cost him. Five years ago, he had given up his dream of raising orchids and blue-eyed cats, pulled back into the unholy mess that Erik was making of his life. He had kept busy since, securing Erik's rescue as well as his future.

As he strode into the brass and black marble rotunda of the Hotel Le Courbusier, he carefully took in the changes made in ten years, wiping water from his face with a handkerchief that was just as wet. There were new paintings on the walls, a few new fixtures. But basically, the hotel had not changed.

Erik had always preferred staying at Le Courbusier.

Kahn's room was spacious and well appointed, with fresh flowers, and plenty of warm towels brought up by a attentive young chambermaid. He could have settled for a much smaller, reasonable room, but this was exactly right…on the same floor and diagonally across the wide hall from the large suite where Erik, Mademoiselle Butler, and apparently as chaperone, Madame Gadreau were staying. Nadir found it easy to engage the young man at the hotel desk in conversation, expressing the hope his closest 'neighbors' were quiet, retiring types.

Had Erik provided guidance in the choice of hotel? He was certainly more than qualified to advise on anything pertaining to Lyon, France. A true metropolitan city, Lyon was once one of Erik's favorite haunts, providing him with the musical, theatrical, financial, and archeological playgrounds he relished.

Nobody knew him here as Erik de'Carpentier, naturally, but as Monsieur Aaron D. Woodman, musician, amateur archeologist and rich, eccentric recluse.

Many knew of Woodman through his passion for the excavation and preservation of the old Roman sites that dotted this part of France. He was considered a skilled and learned layman in the field of archeology and had funded, as well as worked beside students and professionals alike on such famous sites as the Amphithéâtre des Trois-Gaules, the old Roman open-air auditorium northwest of Old Lyon. Erik worked with his face covered by shmaagh and agaal (standard Arab scarf and headband); Nadir supposed that few questioned Erik about it...and never more than once. Erik was still Erik...and to push him was to ask for retaliation. The most frequent assumption made of Monsieur Woodman's injury involved a military career ended after a horrendous facial injury. And that 'Woodman' was damned touchy about it too…

In retrospect, Nadir realized Lyon had provided Erik de'Carpentier with the opportunity to behave as a member of the human race...when and if he chose to do so. It was not a role that Erik sought, or performed often, but he could do it given reason enough.

However, events in the last ten years had made him reluctant to leave Paris for more than a week at a time, and it had become increasingly impossible to get him to do so at all. Four years ago, as he had watched the man lose his mind over a child barely 16, Nadir wondered if Erik would have been far better off to have stayed in Lyon, France when he first returned from Persia, instead of seeking out his 'sister' Antoniette Giry. Would the world have gained a master musician, composer, artist and teacher, instead of a madman?


	25. Chapter Twenty Four

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

I awoke with a sense of optimism, quite at odds with the prevailing weather; it was windy and cold, Dame Winter apparently reluctant to release her grasp.

I took my time with my morning toilette: fussing at my hair with indifferent results, pulling at my skirt and shirtwaist to improve the fit. A glance in the mirror revealed no change; disgusted with my vanity, I draped my paisley shawl around my shoulders and joined the gentlemen.

Dietré and Thom were both at table finishing their breakfast, Dietré having stepped into the breach left by my missing housekeeper and houseman and fetching it from the hotel kitchen. Bouchard was standing at the piano, leaning over the keyboard to write in one of my sketchbooks, a cup of coffee at his elbow. He looked quite casual, with his vest half-undone, sleeves rolled to the elbows and neckcloth loose. I stood for just a moment, admiring the homey scene with the thought that it could be just this way in Italy…

Upon stepping through my door I was greeted with a rolling crescendo that spiraled up the keys to end in a sparkling finale. Both Chanson and Xavier rose from their chairs, Dietré wearing a ill-concealed grin, as Bouchard assumed an oratorical stance, hand upon his heart, to intone roundly, "_It is the east, and Juliet is the sun."_

I stopped, and laughed. "Juliet? Oh, surely, not…more like, "_What hempen homespun have we swaggering here?_"

Scowling mightily, Bouchard's voice took on a thrillingly dark edge, "You _dare _destroy my scene, Mademoiselle?"

"Well, obviously I have missed most of the performance, sirrah!"

The show was obviously over, as Bouchard's voice assumed a warm, jesting timber. "Never would I have considered you the lay-abed type, Mademoiselle." Bouchard began a very simple tune, playing left-handed, while tapping upon the sketchbook with the right.

Looking at the watch pinned to my collar I could not help but sigh; it was a quarter past eight. I poured a cup of tea, selected a well-crisped slice of toast from the sideboard, and found a comfortable spot on the divan that faced the piano. "I've been known to sleep in quite late in the morning, Monsieur. It goes with the life of immoderate dissipation I lead." I smiled and ate toast.

Chanson chuckled.

Bouchard did not appear to be amused. "I need you. I have needed you _all morning_. Naturally, I would not dream of rousing you from your rest…" Slanting both eyes to me, his lone eyebrow tipped in denial…_naturally_ he had considered doing just that…

"Oh, no, surely not. However, I am here now, and we do need to attend to your wounds. As soon as you are ready, allow me…"

"I have already attended to my injury, Madame." Bouchard turned his face to show me the slick shine of the freshly medicated wounds.

I blinked in surprise. "I see…but you did not have the…the anti-suppurative cleanser and herbal antiseptic…fresh linen pads..."

"I fetched them from your room." Turning back to the keyboard, he twiddled two keys whilst writing in the sketchbook.

"You were in my room? Whilst I was asleep?" Why did I suddenly feel hot all over. "Bouchard…I would ask you refrain from coming into my room when I am…"

"Madame, did you arise at a reasonable time, perhaps I would not have need to come into your room while you are still abed." His expression had become insufferably smug.

"Perhaps there is a difference of opinion as to the meaning of 'reasonable', Monsieur!" Casting a narrow look in his direction, I shoved the remaining quarter-slice of toast past my teeth and chewed vigorously, reining in my ire…which was, after all, more embarrassment than honest anger. "However, I am happy you have attended to your wounds, and apologize for being unavailable to do that for you. I am, after all, a nurse…"

"Hmmm…yes." Dropping the pencil Bouchard began humming, lightly moving his fingers over the keyboard.

"So…I am here! In what capacity did you need me?"

As if in answer, Bouchard again sat upon the bench, and began playing a straightforward, uncomplicated piece, more an accompaniment than a full composition…. Bouchard sat back, closed his eyes and began to softly sing…"_Les étoiles de soirée sont toutes allumées…"_ How lovely…

There was a loud rapping at the suite's wide double doors…

Breaking off with a crash of chords, Bouchard cursed robustly. Rising, I dusted my skirt and bodice of breadcrumbs, and ran to see who it was visiting so early in the day, making shushing noises to my ill-tempered patient. Pulling open the doors, I suffered a momentary paralysis, staring stupidly at the trio who stood in the hall.

"Mademoiselle Butler! I am here! And see who I have met in the hallway!"

"Yes, I see..." Montague Abrigaun's elegantly caped coat dripped water copiously upon the hallway's deep rug, and I had no doubt his fine hat was utterly ruined. Emanuel and Anna seemed to hiding behind Abrigaun's tall form.

"Who is that, Aislyne?" Bouchard's temper was fraying badly for this early of a morning. Did he not sleep well last night after all?

I swung both doors wide, inviting Abrigaun and Gadreaus to enter to the relative warmth of the suite. The Gadreau's immediately scurried to the small room Anna occupied, wherein she sat on the bed, and Emanuel upon a chair by the door. I accepted Abrigaun's waterlogged hat, pulling his coat off his shoulders to forestall further dripping, hanging them upon the coat stand by the door.

I stopped by Emanual, but it was Anna's eyes that met mine; I was surprised to see an expression of fear…near despair reflected there. She quickly dropped her gaze, and pulled her cloak closer about her shoulders. I turned to Emanuel, only to find him with his face buried in his hands…he appeared so small…so very tired. A heavy weight settled betwixt my shoulders, much the same as that which sat upon Emanuel's, I should imagine.

Abrigaun had moved to stand beside the piano bench, watching Bouchard…who remained seated on the bench, humming, marking on the pad, and occasionally tapping out a few notes. In short…anything but politely acknowledging Abrigaun's presence. I headed for Monty, thinking to coax him over to Chanson and Xavier, desperate to forestall the inevitable scene. I had no more than laid my hand upon his arm to draw him away, but Monty turned swiftly on his heel, and seizing my shoulders, pulled me close to noisily buss both my cheeks. "Mademoiselle, you are a vision! Travel with you agrees, it is quite obvious!"

With a gasp, I jerked free of Abrigaun, and opened my mouth thinking to refute at least half of his statements, only to be interrupted by several dissonant chords played '_colossale fff_ ', followed by a thunderously rolling crescendo moving down in minor key. Feeling assailed at every side, I turned to Bouchard to request a moment of peace that I might catch my scattering wits. His eyes were waiting, hard as glass; his expression that of icy contempt. He turned back to the keyboard, the sketchbook and pencil again in play.

Oblivious to everything, Abrigaun grabbed Bouchard's shoulder, declaring, "Monsieur I am here to rescue you yet again!" He backpedaled quickly however, when Bouchard abruptly stood, twisting violently from beneath his friendly hand, shoving the piano bench over in the process. Leaning right-side forward into Monty's confused face, Bouchard snarled, "I do not require 'rescue' Monsieur! Indeed, you are on a fool's errand if that is your purpose in coming here." With that Jerrod bared his teeth in a wolfish grin, his eyes spitting malice, "Lay a hand upon me again, and you shall forfeit it!"

Shocked, I stared at Bouchard; he again met my gaze, and this time his expression was that of incandescent fury under iron control. "Madam Butler; "_Thou art like the harpy, which, to betray, dost with thine angels face, seize with thine eagle's talons._"

Snatching the sketchbook from the top of the piano, Bouchard strode to his room, and slammed the door behind him.

I felt as if I had been kicked by a horse. Unfortunately far too much of my emotions played across my silly face, eliciting a clucking noise of sympathy from Abrigaun. He placed a gentle hand over mine, which were busily pulling at each other, to say, "Our friend Bouchard, he is not yet gentled, I see."

"No. I rather think he is not, Monsieur Abrigaun." I stared at Abrigaun's gaudy striped vest, complete with tassels and a large enameled pin through his wide silk cravat, and then thought to ask him, "Monty, why are you here?"

He raised an eyebrow, "But mademoiselle, I am here to help! It was my understanding you were in this place stalled indefinitely. I have come to do what I can to start us all to Livorno. We will be changing itinerary and will go by another route to Italy."

"Do you mean for us to go south? I had thought… But, it seems the long way 'round."

"Mademoiselle Aislyne, the mountain passes...they do not clear for weeks. You cannot stay here, in Lyon, and so, yes, it is south we must go."

Chanson and Xavier were utterly silent at the table, listening for all they were worth. The silence from the Gadreau's was just as telling.

"And once we reach Marseilles, do we proceed then...by ship?"

Abrigaun practically glowed, his grin radiant with good cheer. "My dear Aislyne, you are so very clever! _Naturellement_, it is by water then to Livorno, and then..."

Xavier practically leapt from his chair, moaning,_ "__il y aura des pirates. Ils nous étriperont tous comme poissons!"_

I caught the one word...pirates...from Xavier's diatribe. Chanson silenced the poor boy by grabbing him by the shoulders and setting him back into his chair. "Hush, Thom."

Abrigaun laughed saying, "_Ne soyez pas idiot,_" whilst patting my shoulder. "Pirates are like ghosts and goblins; they exist only to scare little children. There is no reason to be frightened! Pirates? Bah!" Abrigaun snapped his fingers, grinning hugely.

I looked at Xavier's rolling eyes, Chanson's flagrant suspicion, and to the bent back of Emanuel Gadreau, whose face was now in his hands. I avoided the slightest glance at Bouchard's door, afraid I would begin to wail as if an overwrought toddler. Upset and thoroughly unnerved by the relentless destruction of what had began as a wondrously peaceful morning, I turned, meaning to just go to my room, perhaps to slam the door behind me as had Bouchard.

I had, however, had quite enough drama for the morning. I was seriously considering throwing Abrigaun and the Gadreau's out of the suite and invading Bouchard's room. What I would dare do once there, I had no idea, but the thought he would doubtless throttle me was strangely attractive. Better that…far better that!…than to suffer his sovereign contempt.

My chest was tight…a warning I had recently learned to give due attention.

I quite realized I could not throw anybody out, much less my employer's representative who was, after all, only here to aid in our progress. It was Monty's continual use of the word 'we' that was concerning, as was Thom's fear of sea-travel. The Gadreau's were a much bigger problem, because I knew there was only one thing I could do to protect Bouchard, as well as keep order among our party. I was reluctant, however, to do so, and ashamed to admit I was quite willing to pass that particular chore to Abrigaun.

Finally, I had to admit the very idea of reboarding the Pullman cars for an extended trip to the south of France carried its share of stress. I had never before fully appreciated the luxury of near-absolute quiet, nor that of complete stillness beneath my feet; states of being I would never again take for granted. The thought of again being contained in those small rocking, clack-clack-clacking boxes...

I found myself nearly panting…

I needed to get out of the suite and away from these people…yes, to abandon my post or go stark-staring mad! I turned to find Abrigaun, Chanson and Xavier all watching me. Abrigaun made as if to move to me, but I held up my hand, my expression so fierce it served to stop him.

I would have to prevaricate, then…anything to find a bit of time and space. Whatever it took…

"Monsieur Abrigaun," I declared firmly, "you will need to excuse me, as I…have an appointment this morning. I cannot cancel as it is…ah…concerning these stitches, as well as a vexing cough I have not been able to shake." Seeking a sense of verisimilitude, I coughed daintily into my handkerchief.

Chanson appeared thoughtful, then grinned, poking Xavier when he looked as if he wished to speak.

Monty's expression was instantly solicitous, and he moved forward to clasp my struggling hands against his chest. "You are to see a doctor, Mademoiselle? But the weather, it is no place for you! The cough, it will become a fever of the lungs! Surely the doctor, he should come here…"

Extricating my hands from Abrigaun's clasp required some violence, exacerbated by a hotly stinging conscience. "Nonsense. I have a hackney…ah, fiacre called, and…I must go! Chanson, please insure Monsieur Abrigaun is comfortable until my return. Oh, or…perhaps Monsieur Abrigaun, you would rather go to your rooms…you are staying here in Le Corbusier, yes? And Dietré, keep an eye on…ah…things, yes? I will…be back…", I was in my room, putting on my suit coat, stabbing hatpins through my hat, gathering my long coat, scarf, gloves and bag. I looked regretfully at my new leather half-boots; they would be utterly ruined upon their first contact with standing water… Sighing, I left my room, pulling the door shut behind me.

"I am very sorry Abrigaun. It was such a shock to see you, the time…the appointment slipped from my mind…" I all but ran through the suite, stopping only to pat his arm.

Abrigaun's expression was faintly stiff…and normally I would have tried to smooth things between us…he was, after all, more than just my employer. I shot one more apologetic look in his direction …and pulled open the double doors to the hall.

"Oh…wait…Mademoiselle Butler! I have something I must give you before I leave!"

I turned, meaning to ask he give…whatever it was…to Chanson. The words remained unsaid...

Letters.

"I have a letter from Madame de'Chagny, and this very fat one here from your friend at the hospital…" Abrigaun's smile became teasing, "Of course, I can hang on to them for another time." He tucked them against his vest, as if to stuff them back into his inner pocket.

I walked back to where he stood and carefully leaning forward I kissed his cheek. His hands, one of which held the letters, moved toward my body as expected …and away from his vest pocket. I stepped away, and murmured, "Thank you, Monty," and before he could again tuck them out of my reach, I tugged both envelopes from his fingers. "I will have them to read whilst I await my appointment."

Abrigaun's laugh carried a hint of frustration, but he said, "I am sure you will enjoy them, Mademoiselle. The Vicomtess was most anxious to share with you her good news."

I nodded, and practically ran out of the suite, closing the doors and fleeing down the hallway to the wide front stairway.

**************

Standing in the hotel atrium, I realized how difficult it would be to actually leave the building.

Outside the wind sent rain in vast sweeps across the flooded boulevard and sidewalks, making the trees dance and shudder. The gutters and ditches were full, having become foaming, whitewater cascades, and thunder rumbled sonorously from a flashing, forbidding sky. Many businesses about the hotel had brought down their awnings before the wind tore them away. Most were not open for business, accepting the effect the harsh weather had on business. Although it was not past 9 o'clock in the morning, the streets were empty, the sky dark with impenetrable clouds.

Sighing, I looked back to the wide hall leading back to the stairs…back to the suite…

A young man in the hotel uniform appeared at my side. "Madame…_Est-ce que je peux vous aider_?" Behind him I saw the hotel manager…a hirsute, forbidding specimen…watching closely, his thoughts on a lone woman standing in his hotel lobby patently obvious.

Smiling, I showed the bellboy and the judgmental manager my room key, saying, "I thought to visit the _pasterie_ across the street for a cup of tea and a sweet. I had no idea the weather was this appalling! Perhaps there is somewhere quiet here within the hotel where I might read my letters and enjoy my tea in relative peace and solitude? I nodded to the manager at the desk when the boy turned to him, shrugging. The man snapped two words to the boy, sending him trotting off in another direction, then sternly waved me to the desk. Lifting my chin, I approached him where he stood, staring down at me.

"Madame…I didna' catch your name?" I could not stifle my smile…he was not French, but a Scot. There were many Scots in France…

"I am Miss Aislyne Butler. I am with the de'Chagny party in Suite 400."

"Does Monsieur de'Chagny _know_ you are wanderin' about the hotel, then?" His wide, bearded face actually bristled with indignant censure, as his hairy brows met and wrestled above his nose.

The Scots were all chauvinistic barbarians, were they not? I raised one eyebrow, giving him a dead-level stare for a heartbeat or two. "I am no servant, sir, nor feckless female requiring a keeper. I am a British citizen here in France on medical assignment with the de'Chagny family. Obviously it is far easier to find insults than a quiet cup of tea at the Hotel Le Corbusier…" I nodded briskly, and shoving my gloves into my pocket, prepared to return to the suite.

The manager's face rearranged totally, every hair fell flat, his eyes round with regret. "Here, here…Miss Butler, I 'umbly beg your pardon…I only thought…"

I glared at the man, allowing some small part of my overwrought state to show, growling "It was readily apparent what you thought, sir!" Even as I snarled at the man, I chided myself, 'Unpin your ears, Aislyne! The man is just doing his job!'

Sighing, I held up my hand, saying, "I am sorry for being such a trial…but all I wish is…"

"Yes, yes…a cup of tea." His head canted and he pounded one fist gently upon the counter, his arrestingly blue eyes never leaving my face. Then, grunting in sudden decision, he walked from behind the desk, tapping a nearby young clerk to watch the desk on the way around to the gate, saying, "I've to deliver this young lady to the tea room."

Stepping down from the elevated area behind the counter, the manager strode to where I stood; he still topped me by a few inches, although he was perhaps just as surprised at my height. We stood for several moments, sizing each other up, until he relaxed and introduced himself as James Crombie with a polite nod; I reciprocated, repeating my name, and adding, "lately come from Brighton, England to care for the uncle of the Vicomptess de'Chagny."

The niceties dispensed, he offered his arm, saying, "I will escort you to the tea room…which is exactly what you seek, Miss Butler." He led me past the first corridor, and along the wide hall which I would see ran the length of the hotel.

I immediately noticed Mister Crombie was given respect by all who passed us as we moved through the hotel. Maids curtsied, footmen bowed, and several gentlemen passing through from the restaurant nodded in recognition.

Crombie shared that he was, indeed, a Scot, and characterized himself as 'a fool in France' seeking his fortune.' "There's none to be found in Edinburgh where I grew up, an' I've lately come to see there is little more to be found here. I am considering going to America. It is said a man can do vera' well there, if he is of a mind to do so. So, tell me, Miss Butler, have ye' heard anything of that sort?"

Turning to me, he appeared quite serious; as Mr. Crombie's whiskers had the unfortunate affect of hiding most of his face entirely, I could only suppose it was no rhetorical question. "I cannot say I have any personal familiarity of the United States, Mr. Crombie, as neither I nor any of my family have been there. However, I have read that it is there you will see a true egalitarian society come to realization, as it is the common man who drives the government and industry. That a man is judged by his contribution to his community and society as a whole, and not by his ancestors' names. Why, it is whispered in some circles that women are already demanding suffrage…and may well have it within my lifetime!"

Mr. Crombie rolled his eyes toward me, and I chuckled quietly. "I quite like the idea of that last one, Mr. Crombie, even if you do not."

"Miss Butler, I am totally neutral on the subject, being male."

"Yes, of course. I do believe you would be an excellent candidate to become an American…speaking from only a few minutes acquaintance, however." I smiled, as did he. Rather, his beard assumed a curved aspect in the area where I assumed his mouth would be…

"Miss Butler, you have been most encouraging. And if I may be so bold, why do I think I hear a bit of the home country in your voice? Are you Scottish? Or perhaps lowland bred?"

"It is a bit of Irish…and of Scot too. My father was a Scot by birth. My mother was Irish. I am surprised, as I've been told I'd lost my mother tongue unless in a temper."

"Aye, well, then I willna' pester you further Miss Butler, as I can hear the burra' clear as day." He pointed to an ornately arabesque'd double arch ahead on our right, saying, "This will be the tea room."

Upon passing beneath the heavily gilded entry, we were met by Madame Roquette, to whom Mr. Crombie passed me, but not before he'd kissed my hand, and declared, "You'd make a bonny American, Miss Butler." His grin may have been well hidden beneath the bushy beard, but the sparkle in his eyes was unmistakable.

I could not help but laugh, but my cheeks were hot. "I'm too long in the tooth to go haring across the sea to America, Mr. Crombie, but I thank you for the compliment."

"Enjoy your quiet and cuppa', Miss Butler."

"_Tapadh leat_, Mr. Crombie." (Thank you – Scottish Gaelic)

"_Taing Mhόr_, Miss Butler." (You are welcome)

My composure restored by the homely conversation with a fellow Britain, I was greeted warmly by Madame Roquette, who whisked away my Ulster and hat to a small rack behind her desk. Quite frankly gawking, I found the tea room remarkable, having never seen anything like it before. The panoramic view of the storm-harried landscape did nothing to detract from the light feeling of the interior. It was a large, airy room facing the southwest, with a high, ash-planked ceiling, and three walls of oversized mullioned windows, nearly floor to ceiling. Palm, fig, and fur trees in giant pots were clustered in the corners and exotically hued vines crept over and about the minimal stone walls that supported the windows. Planters of delicate ivies, tropical plants and vines, and local garden flowers banked the windows.

Madame gave me a short tour; the room was divided into respectably-sized, private 'salons' by six-foot partitions of wood lattice with espaliered roses, rhododendron and bougainvillea providing even more privacy. There were six salons, one row of three immediately before the center wall of windows, one row closer to the inside, directly off the modest restaurant. The outermost set of salons were open to the center wall also, wherein the set by the restaurant were closed on all four sides. Overlapping entries made casual viewing of the occupants impossible.

It appeared I had my choice of salon, as the tearoom was utterly devoid of patrons. I requested the center window salon for its excellent view out the windows, finding the slight chill off the glass refreshing. Immediately a young man was dispatched to the kitchen with my request for tea, which was delivered within a very few minutes. Soon enough I found myself thoroughly alone, with the weather-tortured view out the window as my only entertainment.

There was a full garden outside, with boxwood hedge maze, English topiary, rose canes espaliered to elegant Italian plaster walls, and glistening white shell walkways all about. Today, of course, anything not nailed down was halfway to Switzerland.

Outside the sky was again growing darker and heavier. I expected any moment it would rupture and the wind-driven rain would become an overwhelming cloudburst, flooding the garden beds and walkways, obliterating the view out the wide windows to that of a watercolor mélange. At this rate, the only spring flowers these showers would bring would be water lilies!

I sat for several minutes looking out at the shivering landscape, watching the wind scour the shrubbery and flowerbeds. The letters resting in the pocket in my suitcoat weighed heavily against my hip and yet I was reluctant to read them immediately, like a child who holds off the best part of their dessert to be the very last bite.

Louise's letter would bring me reassurance…through her optimism, her innately positive way of seeing life…and her innocence, as ready to believe the very best of all, no matter how squalid and sordid they appeared. Louise and I were very different, yet in one thing quite alike: neither of us comfortable with the lives allotted us from birth. We both had decided early on we were not willing to subjugate our lives to the dictates of the Church, society, or even our own bodies.

Thinking of Louise, why, yes...I did feel better.

I would save her letter, then. I could read it later…perhaps before I turned down the lamp for the night. The envelope was quite fat, no doubt the pages full of news from home and stories from her work, as well as of Rudolph, her reclusive Duke. Still, it was an amazingly fat packet…

I pushed it deeper into my pocket. The Vicomtess' letter could wait too. Her happiness could only push my own unsettled state into greater contrast.

I was ruing the fact I had not a book… something soothing, heavy with descriptive and devoid of emotional content…a Burton travel log or perhaps the doze-inducing memoirs of Robert Walpole. Something peaceful…what I would do for a hour of peace, of liberty from this heretofore unknown state of emotional turmoil. I could not remember a time in all my years when I had been pulled in so many directions at once, more tormented by the words "I want!"

And, as if that were not enough for one to bear, I was most unhappily homesick. I missed my freedom! I mourned the solitary hours, the busyness of the days that kept my mind engaged. I missed my cat, my mare, my piano, my small peaceful apartment above the library.

I missed my LIFE.

These days there were too many hours of forced inaction, allowing the sly, ugly voices opportunities to invade my conscious state. I had long ago developed the ability to screen them all out by keeping my full attention focused outside myself, keeping physically and mentally engaged, painting, playing, riding, working. Now…I had nothing but the excruciating slow progress across France, dealing with the constant stress between the three individuals I was fated to spend the most time with.

Today's gossipy internal discussions seemed well-populated but single-minded; endless, unfailingly cruel 'advice' with a sub-audible chorus of hysterical laughter. And remarkably, a new voice now joined the ranks, the warm tenor hideously out of place among the usual chorus of spike-edged, squalling chant. The words it chanted were hurtful, deeply personal, and therefore quite effective: '_Thou art like the harpy…'_

Dropping my hands onto my thighs, I allowed my back to lean into the wicker and wood chair, tipping my head back onto the cushion to relieve my aching shoulders. I closed my eyes and began the 'magic breathing', allowing the anxieties and stresses to slip down my body and along the conduit of my arms, and out of my fingertips. Each breath taken I allowed solace for my wounded heart, peace for the inner spaces, and perfect silence fill me. Gradually I relaxed, my shoulders easing and jaw loosening, as I forced _that voice_ with the others, the hurtful and hateful, beneath consciousness, until I heard and felt nothing but my own heart beating, and the inhalations and exhalations of my breathing. And there I lingered within the beauty of perfect peace, alone and alight…until I absolutely knew I had to come back...

I was no longer alone...


	26. Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty-Five

He watched Aislyne Butler walk into the tearoom from behind the wide rhododendron leaves woven through the wooden lattice that surrounded his small quiet patch of privacy. It was sheer chance…or perhaps his native policeman's instinct…that his eyes had strayed off his book and he caught a glimpse of her face as she followed the much shorter Madam Rocquette. Kahn's sense of caution kept him utterly still and silent as the mademoiselle pointed to and entered the salon beside his. Dropping his face to appear thoroughly engrossed in his book, he remained thus until the crown of her well-coiffed head had sailed past along the top of the leafy partition. Once she was seated, her request for tea and pastry taken, the waiter moved off to the kitchen, though stopping briefly to check on Kahn. Kahn quickly waved him off without a word, hoping the mademoiselle had not noticed the silent exchange.

All that separated him from Aislyne Butler was a flimsy screen of wood lathe and the leaves of the rhododendron and bougainvillea woven through both sides of their common wall.

He watched as Butler put her hands in her lap and clasped them, face averted, as if in prayer. She appeared upset, an impression reinforced by the unhappy tilt to her mouth and trembling of her hands and lips; this was a woman who just seconds ago was utterly composed while in the company of the hostess. At their first meeting, Kahn knew she was not one who would wear her heart…or any other emotional organ…on her sleeve. He had always admired the stoic pragmaticism of the British; just the ticket for a _alal-damāg _barnāsālike Erik. (_hot-headed or short-tempered young man_)

He wondered if she had come down alone for the sake of collecting herself, or if she was expecting company.

If Erik…or rather Bouchard…was expected to meet with her here, it would be ideal. Such circumstance might give him opportunity to see what state of mind Erik was in these days, given his incarceration and sudden change of fortune.

Positioning his chair to best see the mademoiselle, Kahn unabashedly watched as the mademoiselle collected herself, erasing the effects of her little moment of catharsis carefully with her handkerchief. For several moments she sipped at her tea, fingers drumming upon the table, in what could be considered a sign that company imminent. She then pulled one of the tiny pastries apart with a fork, dividing each piece into smaller and smaller pieces…never actually taking a bite. Nadir nearly clucked his tongue aloud in reproof.

Disgusted finally with the dismembered pastry, the woman pushed the tableware away, and adjusted her chair so as to be turned aside the windows. She then sat back, and slowly released tension in her shoulders and arms in a very distinct, visible way, her left hand lying palm up on the right. The Mademoiselle's chin rose slowly as the movement behind her lids stilled. With growing amazement Kahn watched as Aislyne Butler's breathing slowed, and she slipped into a meditative state, her body relaxed yet upright.

After a quarter hour had passed, Kahn felt confident Aislyne Butler was not expecting company. Twice he discouraged the young waiter from disturbing the Mademoiselle.

After a half-hour he quietly joined her in her salon, feeling foolish to do so, but worried about her all the same. She was visibly…if slowly…breathing; as soon as he eased himself into the chair across from her, her eyelids began to flutter, and her nose quite distinctly flared. A smile flashed across her face; when her eyes opened, she showed no surprise to find him in the chair across the table.

****************

Of course, I knew somebody was near...it was the distinctive aroma of fennel and juniper… the scent I remembered well from our last meeting on the pier…that brought Nadir Kahn immediately to mind. I could not help but smile when I opened my eyes to find the man sitting directly opposite, his hands tucked characteristically within his coat front.

Nadir Kahn stood and bowed deeply. "Mademoiselle Butler, I did not wish to disturb you in your meditation. I waited as quietly as possible. I apologize…"

I quickly assured him, "No, no...Mr. Kahn, you did nothing to hasten conclusion to my...nap. When I realized I was no longer alone…" I stood and stretched my legs and back as modestly as I could, although Mr. Kahn watched with keen interest.

"Mademoiselle, did you indeed know I was here?"

"Oh! Well, just in a general way, I knew when you came in and sat down. I naturally cannot … It sounds a bit...farfetched..." I waved my hand, flustered and thoroughly irritated I had said anything at all. My little 'catnaps' and the odd awareness I had of others anywhere around me were subjects I did not discuss with anyone. It used to infuriate my brothers they could not 'surprise' me when dashing to the outhouse. Fortunately, the 'naps' were a personal discovery many years later.

Nadir Kahn's expression remained most deferential despite my modesty, and when I moved to return to my chair, he swiftly stepped behind to hold it. After a glance and a nod of the head to the waitstaff, he sat again in the chair across from mine. "I took the liberty of advising the waiter to leave you undisturbed until I signaled otherwise."

The waiter who had seated me earlier arrived and whisked the untouched food and cold teapot away. Mr. Kahn requested a pot of coffee and two cups, cream and honey. I did not tell him I did not drink coffee...

"Miss Butler, I apologize. I have not introduced myself to you properly, nor had I any right to approach you when it is obvious the last thing you wished was company."

I did not bother to disagree. However, despite his pretty apology, Mr. Kahn made no move to leave. He instead pulled a long, flat leather wallet from an inner pocket, and laid it upon the table at my fingertips, flipping it open to display it's contents.

"Miss Butler, allow me to introduce myself to you. My name is Nadir Reza Kahn, and am…as you can see by the shield and identification…a member of the _renseignements généraux (general intelligence)_, working directly for Minister of Defense, Jean Thibaudin. I am a special investigator, dealing mostly in espionage between France and our… ah…neighbors."

"Meaning…Britain, Mr. Kahn?" I smiled to take the accusation out of the words.

He nodded vigorously, saying, "Why, of course, Miss Butler. As well as Germany, Spain, Italy, and..." waving his arm as if to implicate the entire of Europe and Asia.

"I see." I looked closely at the contents of the wallet: a long card embossed with the seal of the Prefecture Île-de-France, as well as that of Sûreté Nationale, bearing a calotype photograph of Kahn with his military rank listed as 'Officier _Investigateur. _Opposite this was a heavy gold and blue-enameled badge bearing the Great Seal of France, and Kahn's name and badge number. I was impressed, if only by the photographic identity card. "You are a citizen of France then? Your accent…I assumed you were from…elsewhere."

At that moment Madame Rocquette appeared, with the waiter in tow. She spoke swiftly in French, asking if I was comfortable, expressing pleasure I had met a such a lovely 'friend' and apologizing for the inedibility of the pastries sent with my tea. I opened my mouth several times to respond, only to be interrupted before I could so much as squeak.

The waiter set out a squat carafe, a pitcher of cream, and large tray of fresh and dried fruit, with a small bowls of flavored whipped creams and honey. Whilst Madame waxed volubly upon the miserable weather, Mr. Kahn and the waiter discussed the coffee, carefully poured into large Mason stoneware mugs.

Quite abruptly, Madame Rocquette snapped her fingers, sending the waiter out of the salon, wished both Mr. Kahn and me a lovely visit, and disappeared about the ivy'ed wall. Unconsciously I sighed in relief. Mr. Kahn's expression became one of frank sympathy. "Should I leave you to your thoughts, Miss Butler? I fear I have been…"

"No…no. Please… It is the French language…it seems it must be spoken rapidly and at length…as if one must learn to draw breath through one's ears. I think I am comprehending, keeping up fairly well…in my mind, anyway, and suddenly I am listening to… gibberish! I do not believe I will ever actually speak the language." I became flushed with embarrassment, realizing I doubtless sounded hysterically strident.

Mr. Kahn chuckled, saying, "I, too, found the language a trial to learn. However, there are those who do so easily…and those such as ourselves who must struggle. If it is of any consolation, I have never found anyone who could not, eventually, speak it well enough to be understood."

"I may well be a 'first' for you, Mr. Kahn."

"I doubt it. You will learn it despite your misgivings. Give it time and have faith in yourself." Mr. Kahn then addressed his attention to the large cups of steaming coffee, pouring a generous dollop of the thick crème, and a teaspoon of honey into both cups, and stirring them each 'round twice.

Placing one cup before me, he commanded, "Drink, and know God."

"You have great faith in your coffee, sir." I held the cup to my nose and sniffed at the caramel-colored brew; if nothing else it smelled wonderful.

"Indeed I do. There are mornings when it is the only reason I leave my bed."

The coffee tasted far stronger than even the darkest tea but without the resulting bitterness. The cream and sugar gave it substance, nearly as if it were hot chocolate. After another sip, I smiled. "Very smooth. But what does it taste like without the cream and honey?"

"Your next cup shall be black. It will stain your teeth, however, if you habitually drink it so. In my country coffee is frequently served black and very strong...much stronger than this. You can easily tell those who drink it by the discoloration of their teeth."

"I will do my best not to become overly fond of it then. Although Chanson and Bouchard without fail drink two cups each, and are generally very jealous of their due portions."

We both lapsed into a comfortable silence, sipping at our coffee for several minutes, and watching the battered landscape out the large windows. I admitted, "I could grow to like coffee very well. It has a…comforting effect that tea has not. Now I know why it is so popular in London."

Mr. Kahn smiled widely, displaying patently normal teeth. "It is a energizing drink, so do not drink it after sunset unless you wish to be awake half the night."

"I'll keep that in mind."

He next spent a moment selecting and slicing an apricot, and I watched, intrigued, as he then swirled the slice of fruit in honey and whipped cream. Seeing my interest, he gestured towards the tray. "Mademoiselle, you must try this. It is far better for you than the baked concoctions of white sugar, fat and flour that are French pastries."

I selected a sliced date, and anointed it as he directed. It was heavenly.

Sitting back in his chair, Mr. Kahn laid one strangely scarred hand upon the breast of his waistcoat. "Mademoiselle, I am flattered you remember me. Our meetings to this point have been…complicated by the urgency of Monsieur Bouchard's situation."

"I admit I have often wondered who you represented in the meeting at Nettles, Mr. Kahn. You never indicated how…or for whom…you were involved. Now I am to understand you represent the French government in this 'arrangement' for Monsieur Bouchard?"

"No no no. I represent only Mr. Bouchard. I am not acting in an 'official' capacity, Miss Butler. These days I am considered retired from service, although I do take the occasional assignment if the travel is to somewhere warm. This," Kahn patted his breast pocket, "simply keeps me available to Minister Thibaudin should he need my services."

I sipped at my coffee, and considered the man across from me. "It relieves my mind to know Bouchard has had an advocate throughout this...ordeal. You certainly hid that fact at our first meeting, sir. I thought my patient was but the hapless pawn of several powerful and mysterious men."

Mr. Kahn nodded, his expression solemn. "I did not wish to annoy de'Chagny further by openly declaring my allegiance at our first meeting with you, Mademoiselle. He knew, of course, and was most unhelpful in sharing information concerning Bouchard's health and welfare throughout Bouchard's imprisonment. Surely you could see the Vicomte's open hostility for me?"

I rolled my eyes, saying, "The Vicomte's hostility encompassed the whole of creation by the time we reached Paris, Mr. Kahn. Although, yes, he was most particular in his uncharitable behavior toward you. I did not care for it at all." Suddenly, I realized of whom I spoke, and pressed one hand across my lips, shamefaced to realize I was engaged in what some might consider 'gossip' about my employer. Besides which, I reminded myself, I did not wish to put myself in the middle of any dispute between these men. As far as I was concerned, my allegiance was solely to my patient...Jerrod Bouchard.

My companion seemed to oblivious of my ill manners. "In answer to your question...yes, I attended the meeting at Nettles to represent Erik...I'm sorry...to represent Bouchard." Mr. Kahn grimaced and produced a handkerchief to rub at his eyes. Then, smiling weakly, he said, "I apologize for misspeaking, Mademoiselle. I am tired today, having traveled too far and too fast in the past week."

I murmured reassuringly, my only thought the man probably needed to return to his room and rest. Nadir Kahn was not a young man. I was assuming he was staying here, in Le Corbusier, of course.

Mr. Kahn, however, merely picked up where he had paused, saying, "I continue to act for Jerrod's best interests."

"And does Bouchard know of your involvement on his behalf?"

Mr. Kahn sighed heavily, and he folded his hands upon the table. Leaning the slightest bit forward he said, "No, dear lady, he does not. And I would much prefer he _never_ know."

"Oh?" Naturally I would need a reason.

I watched Mr. Kahn's face as he silently examined and discarded possible explanations for the implied request for my silence. He finally gave a very Gallic shrug, saying, "There was a time when…Jerrod and I were friends, although perhaps 'comrades in arms' would better describe our relationship. I was young man with a family; Er…Bouchard was 20…21…or perhaps a year or two younger, but he was in many ways still a boy, very naïve and impulsive. He was far from home, near Moscow, in fact, competing in a summer-long tournament of master magicians hosted by Tsar Alexander II on the grounds of his new summer palace. Erik was doing very well, winning contests against renowned masters, and word of the masked magician's prowess was flying across Europe and Asia. So it was that Nasser al-Din, Shah of Persia heard of him from a camel driver from Astrakhan, who waxed effusively about the 'Son of Ahriman' and the wizardry of his magic. Immediately al-Din demanded he be brought back to perform for his court."

Mr. Kahn paused for a moment to sip his coffee. I sat riveted in the chair, my mind whirling with what I had just learned of Jerrod Bouchard. A magician, competing in Moscow… Russia! Called to the Shah of Persia's court! I paid absolutely no attention to the fact Nadir Kahn was calling Jerrod "Erik". The name meant nothing to me…

Kahn's expression waxed thoughtful, no doubt recalling another time and place... I sat as quietly as he, attempting to appear calmly attentive, instead of nearly spinning with impatience for him to continue… After a few moments I shifted just a bit, worried about his silence. Nadir's eyes snapped up to my face, and he grinned teasingly. "I would talk all day if it meant the polite company of as lovely woman as yourself. I wonder that you are just being kind in allowing an old man to talk of the past, Mademoiselle Butler."

"No! I am quite sure I am not being kind, for you are, as you said, ill-rested and no doubt wishing to go to your room." I gave him a very level look, saying, "I am quite transfixed, Mr. Kahn, and pray you will continue! But only if you wish, naturally!" I dropped my eyes, afraid of seeming a bit too forceful.

"Well…I do wish to tell you why I am interested in…Bouchard's welfare, very much so. And perhaps giving you a bit of insight into…ah…Jerrod's life cannot but help you in your future dealings with him, yes?"

"Of course, yes. And this part of the man's life is singularly interesting, Mr. Kahn. Again, if you are of a mind, I am certainly, as they say, 'all ears."

"Of course, you are now aware that I am not French-born, but of Persia. I have taken France to be my sovereign country, having realized even the weakest democracy is far preferable to any tyrant."

"Nicely put, sir"

Kahn's expression turned serious, and placing his hand upon his chest, he said, "I am not proud of what I now confess. But this is why I felt I must protect Bouchard's interests at a time when he could not…and still cannot do so for himself. You see, I did him a great disservice."

"I was sent to Russia to invite 'Son of Ahriman' to perform at the summer Court of Shah Nasser al-Din, and his mother, the Sultana Khanum. Erik was not interested in the invitation, and quite dismissive of the lure of rich living and rewards. When all my hollow promises failed, I became…determined to take him to Persia. And, dear lady, it is now I offer my only defense: to return home without him would have meant my death, and that of my wife and son, an outcome I would not allow!

"For this reason I tricked Erik, quite unkindly, by requesting his help in finding another comparable magician who would accept my offer. After several days of attending scores of magical performances, with him as critic and guide, he became quite relaxed, believing I was no longer interested in him. One night after his performance, I had especially spicy food delivered to his tent, along with two bottles of the local '_horilka_' (vodka). I visited him in time to help him eat the excellent meal, and taught him how to cut the horilka with the bitter brown beer I brought with me. We drank together as good friends…or so the young fool thought. The food was fine, so was the horilka. The beer…or at least that which he was drinking…was drugged heavily with a narcotic elixir. He could not taste it as the heavily spiced food, and bitterness of the beer had numbed his ability to do so.

"Once he was rendered unable to protest, I had my men tie him over a well-padded pack mule, and we departed Moscow in the darkest hours."

Mr. Kahn looked up from careful inspection of his hands, as if to judge his next words by what he might see in my face. I admit I was surprised…perhaps shocked. It was hard to believe this quiet man, with his gentle humor and placid manner, could have done something so…despicable. To befriend and then take such cruel advantage of a young man…'a child', as he said!

And then I felt as guilty as Mr. Kahn looked, for was I not enjoying the story…and wished most earnestly for him to continue? Quite irrespective of the hardship it had meant for the young man who had been Jerrod Bouchard!

Ruefully, I covered my eyes and shook my head. "I know he survived the experience, Mr. Kahn. I will take comfort in that…"

Kahn nodded slowly, but whispered softly, "Yes, but at a greater cost than you know…"

Looking up at his words, I waited, but he did not continue with the thought, saying instead, "I quickly became unsure if he would allow _**me**_ to survive it, Mademoiselle. We traveled hard and very fast until we came to the river port of Saratov, upon the Volga, by which time Erik was in full possession of his wits. He earned his name 'Son of the Devil' in the time it took five of us to pull him off the mule and load him, fighting like a crazed wolf, inside a large, heavy wood crate. He was forcibly drugged again…" Kahn grimaced, "…and it was God's own mercy we did not kill him while doing it." Silently I agreed, remembering Abrigaun's thought of giving Bouchard extra Laudanum to insure he slept longer. And did not Bouchard tell me soon thereafter he had an aversion to the stuff?

"Within the hour I had hired our passage on a small, fast Russian steamer to take us all the way to the Mazandaran Gate on the southern-most bank of the Caspian Sea. You need not wonder of your poor Erik, Mademoiselle. Upon boarding, he was set free of his crate, but cuffed by one leg to a solid steel pipe, with a 10-foot chain. It was a vast relief to lock our magician into a small port-windowed cabin where he could curse and pry at his shackle with a teaspoon for the first two days without harming himself or anyone else. He calmed down once I had again promised he would be royally paid for his trouble. He also realized there would be no emptying of his slops bucket, nor fresh water, nor food until he allowed us safe entry…and exit of his cabin.

"Within a week or so, he was allowed to walk the deck of the steamer…with two of my men as company. He talked to no one…but this was nothing new. Even in the midst of our week as 'friends' while camped on the Tsar's vast lawn, Erik was never greatly talkative. He was shy…painfully so…when out among the crowds who flocked to watch the exhibitions. He usually sat in the shadows and watched, his hat and mask in place. If approached by an admirer, he was rude, ignoring them, or saying something insulting if they persisted. I do believe it was his deft displays of accuracy and affinity with knives in his exhibitions of magic that kept him from receiving a saif shoved through his liver."

Kahn gave a soft laugh, for a moment recalling something he apparently was not going to share with me. He snapped his eyes to mine, and assumed a sober mien, adding, "Naturally, aboard the steamer he went nowhere without his mask in place, and seemed to prefer the evenings, keeping to the shadows. He seldom spoke to anyone unless goaded into doing so, and then went out of his way to annoy, insult, and humiliate them."

"I had four of my best Zafaranlu with me…warriors who feared nothing, hardened men of the desert clans. By the time we had traveled down the the Volga to the Caspian Sea, none of them wanted to be anywhere close to our 'Demon'. He frightened them with the simplest of magics, making food and coins disappear from their pockets, 'sending' vermin and such unpleasantries onto their persons from a distance, making objects 'talk' without moving his own lips. He frequently handed them their own _jambiya_ (dagger) before it was noticed as missing from it's sheath.

Erik convinced one of the men…the youngest, Cemal…who was a formidable warrior and lightening fast…that he could disarm him without touching him. The young fool took Erik up on the wager…and Erik had the man's knife to his throat before he could protest. Naturally, Erik immediately handed it back, but insisted upon immediate payment on the wager, which was impossible…until Erik then returned young Hamid's purse."

"Erik had laughed for hours after this trick, angering Malik Akbar, the elder brother of he who had been made the fool by Erik's tricks. Malik threatened to gut Erik if he did not stop, wherein I found I had to put myself between Erik and the elder's sword..."

Mr. Kahn sighed then laughed quietly. "I have been several times in situations where I needed every advantage to keep Erik alive. Many times…"

"Erik did not impress these men with his tricks and sleight of hand. He was arrogant and dismissive, calling them 'sand monkeys' and worse. He did not endear himself to me, either, although it was no more than I deserved. I had, after all, stolen from him any chance of being what he had set out to become…a magician renowned across Europe, a man who could demand respect, despite his face…"

"After four weeks of hard travel we arrived in Mazandaran to find the court in disarray. The Sultana Khanum was threatening to return to Tehran taking her court and nearly all of her son's favorite consorts with her, thus enraging the Shah. Slaves were already dismantling many of the silk pavilions that surrounded the summer palace, and the streets about the Royal block were filled with locals, attempting to sell or steal anything that would tide them through the long months until the court and prosperity again returned to the Rosy Palace."

We went directly to the Shah's audience, still covered with the dirt of the road. My men had Erik in leg chains when we marched into the Shah's presence; Erik was, as always, wearing his full-face mask as he had been quite convincing throughout our travel that to remove it was to lose one's last meal. Just the sight of the side of his scalp was enough to turn one's stomach. He had obviously not faired well in Moscow despite his prowess as a magician; he was painfully skinny and an infection was raging unchecked across his face and scalp. Traveling without enough rest, food, or personal care had taken a horrible toll on our magician's physical condition. Several times I had treated him with goat urine, pouring it directly over his head. Erik, of course, was not cooperative in my endeavors to treat his malaise."

"I realized we needed to find him competent medical care or the magician might not live long enough to put on more than one or two performances."

Mr. Kahn put his cup down upon the table and sat back in his chair, his eyes shadowed. "The Shah summoned us forward to before the dais where he and his mother, the Sultana Khanum relaxed upon their golden silk couches, surrounded by fanning slaves. We immediately fell to our knees, as was expected; the Akbars jerked a recalcitrant Erik off his feet and shoved him face down, flat upon the floor. I then began to tell Shah al-Din of the magician, our travel, and beseeching him for the mercy of his approval. He instead cursed me, enraged at the time it had taken to fetch "his magician". He berated me for our obvious lack of respect in coming in his presence 'looking like filthy swine.' He demanded his whip be brought so he might scourge me before the dais, and then decided I should prostrate myself before him instead to beg his mercy. As I, as well as the other members of my party, were already upon knees and foreheads before the dais, I was feeling a trifle ill-used…"

I murmured approvingly, 'Spoken like a true Frenchman!", earning a faint smile for my efforts. "Exactly. It was then Nasser al-Din turned his attention to Erik, demanding he rise to his knees and remove his mask. I was astonished that Erik understood the Shah at all; Erik rose from the floor, and naturally refused to remove his silk face cover, but doing so in such fashion that I honestly believed he had gone mad from the strain of travel, and was desiring a quick death! The fool stood, shook both fists at al-Din, and screamed…in Farsi…several things of a scatologically vulgar nature. I realized he had been listening far too closely to my men when they played dice or 'As Nas' during the late evening watches.

"The Shah turned several shades of purple, and dropping the whip with which he had been prepared to abuse me, screamed for his guards to seize the infidel and remove his mask. Immediately several of the Shah's men grabbed Erik, beating my men away, and…to the disgust of the entire court…quite roughly jerked the mask from Erik's face."

I actually felt the horror of the moment, so caught up in Kahn's story was I. Although I had no reference other than the stylized color pictures of Oriental palaces found in travel books and encyclopedias, I could nonetheless imagine the scene. The hard, angular faces of the men crowding the audience chamber, dressed in flowing robes and turbans. The silks and rich colors of the couple on the dais, attended by ebon-skinned slaves.

Nadir's men would be in black, the warrior's color, with chainmail and leather singlets beneath their long black robes, kneeling about their master, clutching the pommels of their saifs in alarm. And Jerrod Bouchard, the Magician 'Son of Ahriman' standing in his shackles and dirty rags, fists raised in defiance, his face torn and bleeding from the abrupt removal of the silk mask that hid his shame…

Unaccountably I sought my handkerchief…feeling my eyes well in sympathy for the young Bouchard, for his pain and humiliation, albeit happened so very long ago…

Kahn snorted, saying, "You may feel sympathy for him now. At the time I was terrified he would cost us all our heads!"

Self-conscious of my reaction, I snapped archly, "He was a very young man, Mr. Kahn. Everything he had suffered at your hands, and then to have his dignity stripped from him along with that mask! It…it is distressing…"

"Dear lady, I apologize…I tend to forget…" He patted the air, requesting my patience…and my forbearance. Composing myself, I abandoned my few remaining scruples, eager to listen to Mr. Kahn's tale.

"It may be that I was responsible for much of the young man's present hardship, Mademoiselle, but I was working very hard to keep us all alive. Young Bouchard, however, had discovered his voice and taken blind refuge in loudly expressed arrogance. His Farsi may have been impure, but it was certainly well understood by all in the chamber. We were within seconds of being liberally perforated by al-Din's personal guard when salvation was delivered from a most unlikely quarter."

"The Sultana Khanum stood and demanded al-Din's men step away from us. No…she jumped from her couch and SCREAMED it! The Shah's guards scattered, like mice before the hungry cat, unwilling to be thought disrespectfully slow in response to her command."

"Erik, I and my men were immediately standing alone in the middle of the chamber, every other occupant pressed to the walls. As an additional blessing, Erik was rendered speechless!"

Nadir Kahn stopped, and looking into his twice-emptied coffee mug, and then lightly wiggling the heavy carafe', he said, "Perhaps it is time to request another pot."

I covered my face with my hands, just for a moment, then dropped them in my lap. "I confess, I have never been a patient reader, Mr. Kahn. Sometimes it seems I must devour books, instead of reading them. My…my Da used to say I needed to eat more and read less… And so it seems with listening to this wonderful story…"

"A pleasant change from those who read not at all, yet eat constantly, Mademoiselle." He reached across the small table to pat my hand, then lay his atop mine in a characteristically comforting gesture. It was the first time I could recall feeling the whole of his hand, or seeing the top so clearly.

"You are wondering about my hands." He said it as a statement.

I felt my face flame in embarrassment. "I…I cannot help but notice the scars…" Shamefaced, I met his eyes, a chorus of scolding voices having already begun within at my tactless behavior. "I am, perhaps, also afraid you are changing the subject, Mr. Kahn."

"No, dear lady. These hands…they are part of the story. You see, it is because of these scars that Erik will never kill me. And believe me, he has often felt he had right and reason enough to do so." As he spoke, Kahn turned over both of his hands, laying them palms up on the crisp tablecloth before me.

I sucked my breath in shock; the palms looked as if they had been chopped with an axe a dozen times each, rendering both into a crisscrossed patchwork of lumpy pads. I lightly investigated one palm with my fingers…receiving wordless encouragement from Nadir to do so. His palms were hard, each lumpy pad callused and rough. I turned both of his hands over, and found the scars on the top did not match the palms, but were obviously of additional injuries inflicted directly to that surface. I am no expert, but it looked as if a limber steel rod was laid with great force across the top of each hand many, many times, cutting the skin like a knife, in straight lines from wrist to knuckles. I could not stop my fingers from instinctively locating and following the bones within, finding the nodules and disarticulations that spoke of the horrendous damage done. I gently pushed and rolled the tissues, easing around the heavier scars, my hands remembering the rote of tissue massage, whilst I wondered "How was Bouchard involved in this?"

Looking up at Nadir Kahn I saw the man wore a most delighted smile, his eyes closed. Eventually he murmured, "No one has every thought to do that…to ease my pain in such fashion, much less to voluntarily touch my hands. Mademoiselle, you are indeed an angel of healing…you have delivered heaven."

I had to seek my handkerchief as tears escaped to trickle down beside my nose, which in turn threatened to retaliate in unladylike fashion. I kept my free hand upon his opposite as I stuffed my hanky back under my sleeve, wishing the warmth I sent into his cool skin could heal as well. Self-consciously I explained, "I used to massage the…the places where Lucinda Abrigaun's skin was flayed from her body during her beatings. The damage went down to the bone…the ribs and spine, the very joints in her hips and shoulders. The bones would adhere unnaturally to the tissues, restricting movement where it should have slid about easily. And…I could massage them free, a tiny bit at a time, until she could move more naturally."

Mr. Kahn sighed deeply when I pulled the other hand toward me, and gently began again the search for knotted muscles and congested tissues on the backs of his hands, pressing and rolling to increase internal circulation of fluids.

"You will remember, Mademoiselle that we…Erik, my four men and I…had just been given our lives by the Sultana Khanum. Shall I now continue?"

I could not hide my pleasure to be rejoining the story again. I confined my response to an enthusiastic nod, however, ducking my head to hide my smile, and continued working at his hands. Again, I paid no attention to the fact Mr. Kahn seemed to be confused regarding Bouchard's name. I knew of whom he spoke, after all.


	27. Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Six

Nadir Kahn did not wish to tell the Mademoiselle too much about the Sultana Khanum; it would only open the door to many difficult questions. Shah Nasser al-Din's mother was a psychopathic monster, sadistic and unnatural in every way. She had poisoned her way through the ranks of Mohammad Shah's consorts, had likely had a hand in the death of the old Shah himself. She had most certainly ruined and personally executed Amir Kabir, her own daughter's husband, and Nasser Al-Din's closest ally in the court. She seduced him, and in the moment of love's embrace, she had murdered him. She said he had far too many radically democratic ideas…dangerous ideas…to be allowed to live.

To watch her strut across the dais, eyes intent upon the bleeding and angry Erik de'Carpenter, had given Nadir a very bad feeling indeed. There was good reason for the hasty retreat of the Shah's men when she had loudly dismissed them. No one crossed the Sultana Khanum. No one made light of her power…at least never more than once. It could have ended much differently had Erik used his quick grasp of gutter Persian to insult or humiliate the Sultana…

No, she did not need to hear this.

Instead, Kahn did his best to promote the idea that Erik had fallen into far kinder hands than his. That the reality was just the opposite was not a fact he wished to share with anyone, especially Aislyne Butler. That, too he would do to protect Erik.

He told the Mademoiselle of how the Sultana had walked about the glaring magician, holding a blood-red rose to her lips to mask the strong smells of blood and sweat, and the stink of long travel. Turning to the hulking eunuch shadowing her every move, she said, "Take them all to my quarters and provide them every hospitality."

She turned to where Nadir had crouched upon the floor at her feet, and nudging him with a satin-shod food, said, "You will be rewarded handsomely for your service to the Shah _as promised_, never fear. Go fill your belly, and those of your men. Water and rest your horses. Then go home to your family, _**Daroga**_Kahn. I will inform Nasser al-Din of his advisors' mistaken calculations in the travel time from Mazandaran to Moscow."

Lightheaded with the shock of his apparent 'battlefield promotion' to 'Daroga', Nadir heard her tell her eunuch to immediately call her court physicians. "Tell them they need to heal this man's wounds, or they will suffer my displeasure." Her man had seized Erik in his brawny, pale arms and nearly ran from the chamber with him. Erik never said a word, nor fought the big man's grasp, seeming to swoon into his arms.

As Nadir backed from the chamber, his men surrounding him, he heard the Sultana Khanum boast loudly to her resentful son, "The magician is now my responsibility, as you and he most obviously do not suit one another at all."

**********

"That," Nadir Kahn told me, "was the last I knew of our man for several weeks. Thereafter I heard much of him…that the Sultana was quite happy with his magical performances, that his magic was frightening and some thought him a sorcerer…and so on. He was, in fact, the darling of the Sultana. Er… Bouchard must have realized very quickly that he needed to watch his tongue if he wished to keep his head upon his shoulders."

Nadir then shrugged. "Naturally I knew very little of the details of Bouchard's life at this time, as he was busy pleasing his new mistress, just as I was busy being the Daroga…the chief of police, you could say…for a sizeable district of Tehran. I saw little of… Bouchard until he was given his own house in the city, not far from the Sultana's palatial residence…which were both within my purview. As Daroga, I visited his house after its establishment to enquire as to payment for our services. You see, unlike here…and in your country, taxes do not cover the cost of law enforcement or civil protection. In fact, it was not unusual for some to provide their own protection in lieu of payment of the pittance we requested to do so."

"I had quickly learned my 'promotion' to Daroga was no promotion at all! Why, in the beginning I was no better than the beggars who traveled the roads, with their backs bent and hands out. I was personally responsible for the welfare of the six men assigned to my post, for their wages as well. I soon learned why it was the position of daroga was available to me…few could afford it as the cost of living anywhere within this district was high indeed!

"However, for me, it proved to be an excellent occupation. I enjoyed everything about it, including going house to house to cajole and shame the residents to pay their share for our excellent services. We worked very hard for our district, and I did not allow my men to accept bribes, not even a cup of coffee, without paying for it. I lost several of my first officers to other districts where open extortion of the residents was the only payment received, and betimes the police were no better than the criminals.

"I solved many smaller crimes in the area, twice keeping the foolish from being attacked by bandits, aiding several business owners in recovering stolen goods, and keeping the street traders from becoming troublesome with our locals. Soon the residents saw fit to increase the stipend, to keep us on the job. I passed this to my officers, and hired two more. In less than three years I had a comfortable home just outside the city where I knew my family was comfortable.

"After some time, the court magician set up his house in my district. As usual, I visited, accompanied by one of my men, bringing a gift of pistachio nuts, with a bottle of my own dark plum wine. I wished to speak personally with Erik, primarily to insure he was doing as well as it appeared he must be. I would not feel quite so responsible for bringing him to Persia if he was, indeed, flourishing as the Sultana's magician."

The waiter arrived bringing another carafe of coffee, pouring it into our cups as Nadir flexed and bent his fingers, delighted, apparently with the effect of the massage. With the waiter's exit, we both sipped at the hot, black brew; I was unsure if I liked it thus or not. Once Nadir Kahn began again to speak, however, it did not matter…

"I visited the house several times, and every time the Magician was not available. I knew he was home…I kept a servant busy sweeping the streets around the area, and he would send report to me when our man had returned to his home. Yet, should I visit even five minutes later, I would be told Erik was not there, he was at court, he was at an entertainment… It became very upsetting, and I began to think the man was purposely avoiding me.

"One day I visited when I knew he was in his residence, and I brought two men with me. When I was told he was not in, I inquired of his steward as to where I might find him immediately, and was told he was at court. I immediately dispatched one man to the palace and set the other outside the residence, inviting myself into the large open _apadana_ (covered patio) of the residence. Availing myself of a comfortable chair, I requested a cool drink, and told the servant I would await his master's return from court."

"The steward, a terribly undersized young man, protested briefly, which I ignored. He then brought me cool tea, bowed, and left me, taking a seat at the wide entry to the kitchen. My officer returned from court and told me, quite audibly, that the Magician was not at court, nor was he at the Sultana's palace. I nodded, and sent him and the other man waiting at the gate back to the post. I told them, quite plainly, I would not be back until I had spoken with the Sultana's Magician.

"I sat for most of the afternoon, moving about to keep from going to sleep. I was treated wonderfully, with fresh fruit and toasted sweet breads, sambusa filled with soft goat cheese and chopped almonds, my choice of cold beverages. A young boy came to play the lute for me. I applauded his performance, pressing a coin into his hand, and requested the servant see if his master had returned yet.

"I sat in the _apadana_ until the house servants lit the lamps and set a small brazier nearby where I could warm myself should I grow chilled. I was again fed…a most sumptuous meal of rice and vegetables, flavored with cinnamon…and offered a ride back to my post by ponycart. I simply reaffirmed I would await the master of the house and pulled my sherwani closer about me.

"It was in the dark of the night when I was joined by a tall form, dressed in black…black achkan, tight black churidar, black _amamah_, face covered by a double wrap of the open-weave cloth. I did not, at first, see him as I was enjoying the enchanted singing of the night bulbuls, birds obviously nesting within the center open court of the dwelling. Erik did not attempt to frighten me…he just appeared, and spoke…

"Daroga Kahn. It has been some time since last we met."

I rose and bowed, saying, "It would not have been near so long had you but answered my request for a meeting."

"Ah, but I did answer your request. And the answer was…I was not interested in meeting with you." Erik's voice was…different. Perhaps it was maturity…but there was a thread of steel through it now.

A servant appeared with a jug and two glasses, which he filled with a clear liquid, as well as a bucket of ice, with several glass bottles of beer. I recognized the beer as the strong bitter brew made in Russia…the very stuff I had fed him one evening so very long ago. I knew immediately what was in the glasses…and could not help but grimace.

"You do not find my hospitality pleasing? Daroga, you have wounded me." He actually laid one hand upon his breast, and I clearly saw the flash of teeth behind the loose weave of the gauze lungī draped across his face, yet his voice vibrated of icy resentment.

"I gave a great sigh, and eased slowly back onto the bench, now overwhelmed by the sense of guilt that had dogged me for three years. Speaking softly, I merely told him the truth. "You have every right to feel this way towards me. I despise myself for that one act…that of tearing you from the world you knew…and all that which you hoped to gain. I took that away from you, did I not?"

"Erik suddenly loomed over me, and his voice shaking with rage. "Keep your pity, Daroga, as well your protestations of remorse. You sold your soul for the Shah's coin; I care not if your conscience was badly pricked in the business."

"Stung by his accusation, I leapt up from my seat, finding small consolation in the fact he actually stepped back. "I would have never returned to Persia once you refused had it not been for my wife and son! It was for their lives that I brought you back...the sole reason I do anything at the Shah's request. He holds my family in his fist...It is the way things are done, Erik." I shook my fist at him...then released it...as if to show him my family within, both innocent, yet whose very lives hung there, insecurely with mine.

"Erik seemed startled at first, then turned away slightly, stepping back into the shadows. All threat seemed to drain from him.

"Fiercely, I continued. "You have spent three years within the Sultana's household; am I to believe you do not yet understand this? Do you not know there was never a choice for me, just as there was not for you. Even killing me then would not have stopped the inevitable. My family…my wife and son…would have died because of my failure, and al-Din Shah would have come after you twice as strongly."

"Still he did not speak…but slowly, he relaxed…and then nodded. So quietly I was almost unsure if I had actually heard him, he said, "Yes, I know you speak no less than the truth..."

"I was still somewhat leery of the man's intentions…I was alone now, in his home, at his mercy. He could have taken his revenge and left my body on a back street, to be found the next morning, considered a victim of bandits. Yet I realized this was important enough to me that I would have sought this meeting...taken this step eventually, even had he not moved into my district. My pursuit of this conversation had become far more than the request for payment for my men. Again, I sought his eyes, saying, "I cannot ask that you forget all that went before. I can only hope you find it possible to forgive me."

"Again the nod and soft voice; "It is forgiven, Daroga." There was no hesitation at all. And strangely enough, I felt he was sincere.

"I rose to my feet, suddenly very tired. "I will go, and leave you to enjoy the remainder of your evening. We will talk business again at a later date. This is acceptable, Erik?"

"Erik stepped fully from the shadows, and I was shocked to see how much taller he was, and yet he did not appear to have gained one ounce of flesh upon his frame. His face he kept shrouded, and I thought that perhaps the infection had taken a far greater toll than just the cheek, ear and scalp; I politely focused upon the silver clasp fastened above his left eye, not willing to humiliate him further.

"With another flash of teeth behind the thin fabric, Erik said, "I am called 'Aeshma' now. I am no longer, 'Erik'."

"Although I was aware of the name bestowed upon him by the Sultana Khanum, I refused to refer to him as a 'devil'. I asked him, "Please allow me to continue referring to you as 'Erik'. It is who you are...to me."

"Again, our man nodded his head. "You have only to contact me when you wish to meet again. I will be at your service, barring summons by the Sultana."

"I bowed formally, and wishing him a pleasant evening, I left, choosing to walk back to the post as I had much to ponder. That was the beginning of a long, complicated relationship with my young friend, Er…ah…Jerrod Bouchard, Mademoiselle. Many times since I have wondered at the _karma_…or perhaps _dharma_, or duty, that continually held us upon this parallel path throughout the past twenty years of our lives."

Nadir Kahn shrugged, a rather conflicted smile stretched his lips.

There was now a picture in my mind of Jerrod Bouchard in native attire, entertaining the queen mother of the Shah of Persia with card tricks and handkerchiefs, his face hidden behind the drape from his turban. It was so real I actually craved a sketchbook and my pencils so as to set it down upon paper.

Kahn continued, saying, "So it is that I have forsaken my retirement to chase across France for this man yet again. I realize I no longer 'owe' him this…I have done much in reparation for pulling him from the life he knew prior to my intervention, warranted or not. But he has become…if not family, certainly as important as family to me. We have done business together for many years; Erik's talents do not merely cover the arts! He is a shrewd businessman, who invested in many very forward-thinking projects over the years, making us both quite wealthy."

My surprise at his last statement was unmistakable, and I was compelled to ask, "Does he realize that?"

Mr. Kahn's expression…for the very first time…took on a cautious mien. "I am afraid he…and I…were both all but wiped out in the disbursements toward the…the reparations for the events of two…nearly three…years ago." His eyes dropped to his hands, which began fiddling with an apricot pit, spinning it repeatedly.

Perhaps long overdue, I acquired a bit of wariness myself. I poured yet more coffee into his cup and mine in order to mask the suspicious direction my thoughts had taken.

Nadir Kahn was lying. How very…inevitable! I cannot relate just how much of a disappointment it was too.

We both sipped at our coffee…I had opted for a tot of cream and honey this time…as we looked out the window at the gradually dying storm. It finally seemed to be blowing itself out, perhaps having run out of unattached objects to fling to the heavens. The rain was fitful, at times pounding directly against the windows, reducing the world outside to a colorless wash.

Nadir Kahn broke our silence, saying, "Dear Miss Butler, you are the soul of kindness to listen to this old man go on about the past. But I have kept you from your duties, have I not?" I looked immediately to my watch, startled to see I had avoided my duties for nearly half of the morning!

Kahn smiled widely, as if greatly amused at my subsequent guilty expression. "But surely Bouchard is not alone…four guards accompanied you, am I not correct?

I nodded, saying, "Yes, four guards. Two of which I would need to pull from whatever gutter they used as their lodgings last night…unless they have drowned in their drunkenness during the storm. Thom Xavier is far too young to more than look dangerously large…he is as confrontational as a mouse. And Chanson…yes, Jerrod is in good hands there. Dietré Chanson has become his confidant and conscience, and does as well in keeping Jerrod from trouble."

I rudely pointed a finger in Kahn's direction, and laughed. "You, sir, are a rabble-rouser!"

"Dear Mademoiselle Butler…I must protest that I know nothing about this…rousing of the rabble business!"

"Hah!" I leaned back into my chair, amused. "And in defense of my grievous dereliction to duty, Mr. Kahn, I will point out you have made it all but impossible to do otherwise, and you well know it. Do you realize this is the first…and only…piece of history I have been given that predates his involvement with the Vicomtess de'Chagny? It is as if he did not exist before…"

"And do you always have the history of your patients, Mademoiselle? I would think in caring for the…the insane…you would have many whose pasts were quite unknown?"

"I have always worked in private sanitariums, Mr. Kahn. I cared for those whose families placed them there, never with the nameless wretches to be found in the charity hospitals. Over the years I found knowing a few relevant historical facts about a patient could go a long way toward making them comfortable, and perhaps reaching some understanding for their behavior. I never discourage family members from talking about their loved ones…the patients. Many times the seeds of healing can be found in just such a way. I believe some of my patients have been able to find…sanity…in being given some understanding of their behavior, as well as knowing they can trust me…"

I stopped, and sighed…'I'm sure this is all so much blather to you, Mr. Kahn."

His eyes grew keen upon my face, and for a moment I thought perhaps I had said something untoward…

"Mademoiselle, I have no doubt you have heard some very…unsavory…history from patients you have cared for during your years as a nurse companion. Perhaps bordering on the…criminal, yes?"

"Oh, yes!" To forestall any further discussion in that direction, I raised my hand upright between us, and stated flatly, "Which is all under confidence, Mr. Kahn, so we shall not speak of particulars, please."

"Yes, of course, Mademoiselle Butler. My point was just that, however. If you were to learn something more of…of my friend…er…Bouchard, let us say. Something that was of a more serious nature than…" Violently, Mr. Kahn shook his head… "Never mind…please, I am a foolish old man, Mademoiselle. I am the one blathering…"

For a long moment I sat watching the man as he fussed with the apricot pit yet again. Something more? "Mr. Kahn, I am aware Erik…oh, so sorry…you have thoroughly stuck that name in my head now!" Shaking my head ruefully, I tried again, "I am aware Jerrod was accused of the murder of two men, one for which he was found guilty."

Had Nadir Kahn forgotten I was told of this?

I was a bit taken aback at the patently unhappy expression Nadir Kahn now wore, but pushed on with my thought, nonetheless. "I am also well acquainted with his uncontrollable reaction to unpleasant surprises." I delicately fussed with the neck of my blouse as pointedly as modestly allowed, and Kahn's eyes grew wide with understanding.

"However, sir, I believe you would find him much improved in his self control. He has since demonstrated a great deal of sensibility in his expressions of the stronger emotions."

"Miss Butler, do you not read the newspapers…at all?" Suddenly, Nadir Kahn seemed quite unreasonably irritated with me…

Nonplussed, my initial response to this nonsequitur was an atonal grunt. After a moment's thought I rolled my eyes to the left and temporized somewhat weakly, saying, "Reading the…the newspaper has never been my habit. I would much rather read the bad news once it has become _past_ history… I find it much healthier to learn of depressing world dramas after the fact, rather than wringing my hands helplessly over current events." I smiled ruefully after this feeble-kneed excuse for my aversion to news rags. "However, I did join Chanson, Bouchard, Xavier and the Gadreaus when we sat in the front Pullman and read a great deal of the year's worth of newspapers that were left in a large box there. They were, however, in French, so I…", wherein I raised my hands in signal defeat of my attempts to read French…"I usually listened to Bouchard read to Anna Gadreau."

"I see." Mr. Kahn dropped his chin and grimaced, shaking his head. I could not help but suspect I had missed something important in his question.

Mr. Kahn tipped his head in inquiry, "And now, may I ask how he…Bouchard, rather…is fairing?"

I gave him the easy answer. "Monsieur Bouchard is doing as well as can be expected, Mr. Kahn. He has faced a great many challenges in the past two weeks, if the somewhat sketchy information provided by the Vicomtess de'Chagny is accurate."

Mr. Kahn's smile slipped just a bit. With just a hint of reproof to his voice, he said, "Miss Butler, I have no idea what Christine de'Chagny told you about Bouchard, but I am compelled to defend her good character by saying she is a woman of unimpeachable honesty and virtue!"

I quickly apologized, "Perhaps I should rephrase that, as I truly did not mean to abuse the lady's character, Mr. Kahn. I meant only what she did tell me was deeply personal, yet… devoid of particulars. She was most willing to share all she _felt_ about the man, and yet nothing she _knew __of _him. I have had no…context…for Jerrod Bouchard. I have no clue of his life, how he was raised, beyond the faint allusion to an unloving mother and some years among gypsies. And now…what you have so generously given me." I sighed and folded my hands into a knot at the small table's edge.

Quite purposefully, I leaned forward the slightest bit, and locked my gaze upon that of Mr. Kahn's, saying, "Again, I cannot help but feel there is much about Monsieur Bouchard's relationship with the de'Chagnys that remains purposely hidden from me, Mr. Kahn. Whether to protect the de'Chagnys or Bouchard…well, it really is not important now as I will do my utmost to…to help him find peace, and perhaps enjoy life without hiding among the shadows."

Mr. Kahn's smile grew wider, and he nodded. I smiled also, and continued.

"Knowing him as you do, you are aware Jerrod Bouchard is a master musician, an accomplished artist, well read and wondrously well-informed on myriad subjects. He has a lovely sense of humor, a beautiful voice, and rides a horse well. He possesses social poise…an understanding of the _modus vivendi_ necessary, therefore I cannot see a problem with introducing him to society as a de'Chagny relative, as has been suggested we do. Bouchard was raised a gentleman, if not by his parents, then most certainly by _someone_."

Mr. Kahn's expression became cautionary. "Please add to Er…Bouchard's list of talents that he is a most adroit mimic as well, dear lady. His gentlemanly ways may be more artifice than fact. I, of course, cannot say I would know the difference. I know nothing of his past before his life in Persia; I would never dispute what you believe, but find it highly unlikely he knew naught but the most cursory of adult attention as a child. His manners were always…peculiar…considering that fact. But…as I said…" Mr. Kahn again gestured his lack of information.

Immediately I wanted to dispute Kahn's supposition; I _felt_ the gentle hand of a woman in Jerrod's character…_felt _her presence in Jerrod's intact, though self-repressed, ability to connect to others. Dietré…Anna…myself…and even Nadir Kahn. For all the damage done to the child by an unnatural mother, _someone_ had instilled basic decency in the man. I had encountered it several times in the past two weeks…

There was no clever imitation, nor subtle spell.

And in that instant I knew I wanted to know what had happened to send Jerrod Bouchard spinning into the self-destructive spiral that culminated with him locked away in the Rois Pour la Défectuosité. What had pushed him into committing murder, and shattering the trusting, loving relationship he had shared with Christine de'Chagny? As the question pressed, undeniable, at the hollow place at the base of my throat, I felt a warning squeeze within my chest. And so it was the question tumbled out breathlessly…nearly incoherent.

"Mr. Kahn, I would like you to tell me, as honestly as you feel…possible…what happened between Christine de'Chagny and Jerrod Bouchard? What happened to push Bouchard into kidnapping her in such fashion…when she loved him so that to this day she still mourns…"

I felt the hair at my nape rise, and the blood leave my face in fear…of this question…and the answer I might hear. Did I honestly wish to ask this man instead of Bouchard himself? I thought I would swoon at my own cheek in doing so!

If I was lightheaded with fright, Nadir Kahn was frozen in shock. "Dear lady…," he breathed, "I…I thought you knew all of this. Surely Christine de'Chagny…did she not tell you?"

I sighed, shaking my head. "She was, as I said, very forthcoming with her feelings. As his friend…and I am assuming you were in Paris at this time, as you said you were involved in business together. Did you not see what was happening to him? Was there a moment when…when Christine could have reassured him…regained his proper regard? He…he loves her still, you see, but I do not feel it is '_eros_' he feels but…'_agape_'. There is a protectiveness, a strong filial element to his emotions about her."

Kahn sat unspeaking for a long moment, then offered, "I was not…in Paris during this time, but working out of Portugal off and on… These were…tense years for France; so much was going on here and abroad. My job was to gather information, and I was, therefore, doing just that." Kahn shook his head. "We were in business, but at the time, our contact was minimal, usually by diplomatic mail every month or so. But…I will tell you what I can, and you will do with it what you must. Is this…acceptable?"

"Absolutely!" I was astounded the man had not thrown his serviette to the table and stomped off.

Nadir Kahn settled himself, and began. "Bouchard and I wrote back and forth…although to be fair he was the writer. I fear I am not an enthusiastic correspondent, but we did exchange letters."

Kahn's eyes grew dark with sorrow, and he ran one hand over his face, as if wiping away his own pain. "There was a time in Erik's life when his association with the child Christine brought out the very best in him. He seemed happy, productive, very involved in his passions: music, art and archeology. He…always chose to live in the shadows, eschewing the light of day; I believe you can understand why. But Christine brought light into his life, and perhaps something more…something extinguished in his years in Persia." Kahn 's face seemed to close…for just a moment…as if he pushed something…something back. He continued…

"Christine blossomed under his tutorage, his attention…rapidly losing her waif-like manner to become like any other little girl, full of life and energy. She was developing into a most accomplished young lady by the age of twelve…an important milestone for any of the girls at the academy. And nobody was more proud of their daughter than Erik of his Christine. He wrote several arias for her, and even an intermission scene, complete with all costumes, where she would play the part of a singing well. It was performed during a larger production, but was well received by the audience."

"And, as she grew, both in years and singing ability, Erik began pushing the…instructors at the academy to put the girl more in the forefront of several small productions."

"And so…it was everything Erik had given her…the clothes, the voice, the stage presence…that ultimately brought her to de'Chagny's notice. I gather his brother, Phillipe sang her praises, luring his younger brother away from a night of drinking with rough company to one of her solo performances."

"At first Erik was certainly unhappy with de'Chagny's interest, but he thought keeping a closer rein upon his girl's outside activities would discourage the boy and he would lose interest. Christine was so young…much younger than her fifteen years, as I remember her. She was totally dependent upon her Maestro and Madame Giry, and the most she seemed willing to give de'Chagny's for all his attentions was politely distant friendship. Yet, as the months passed, the youngsters seemed to develop a mutual affection for each other…and inevitably, Christine sought more time with de'Chagny…a real person…instead of merely a fatherly voice behind a mirror…a door…the wall in the chapel."

My look of puzzlement brought Kahn to a stop. Sighing, he said, "Did she not tell you that Er…Bouchard never showed his face to her until…until…"

"I think she mentioned the first time she saw him was when she was…sixteen? I guess I did not completely understand this meant he talked to her through…walls." This was bizarre…it was as if he had haunted her… Raising my hand, I said, "I apologize for the interruption… please," and smiled hopefully.

Mr. Kahn nodded once, and continued. "Both Madame Giry and I had many times expressed our concern with…Bouchard's strange style of relating with a very young Christine. It was almost as if he wished to be thought the deceased father…or this…'Angel of Music' Christine frequently spoke of. However, the relationship benefited both very well, and we saw no real problem. Madame Giry finally admitted to me that Christine seemed well aware there was a real man speaking to her, so Giry let it go. If I continued to reproach Erik for his foolishness in thinking his face would make any difference to the girl…well, it certainly did not change his behavior."

"Of course, now…with Christine and Raoul de'Chagny becoming dangerously close… things began to happen."

Nadir Kahn sipped at his now-cold coffee. Grimacing, he put the cup upon the table. I unclenched my hands once he began to again speak…

"One of the scenery movers hanged himself. Oh…the man was a pervert of the very worst sort…the kind who enjoyed forcing his attentions upon the youngest among the ballet corps. There were terrible stories of this man trapping the littlest girls in dark corners and frightening them into silence while he…well, ah-hem. Stories that were never shared until he was dead…which I tend to believe made them very credible."

"The problem with the man's hanging was…it was not a suicide. It was an accident which occurred during the performance of a opera comidé with a packed auditorium. Buquet was drunk and up in the flies…he took a misstep…and instead of quite messily hitting the stage forty feet below, his neck became entangled in the lines and he strangled while dangling just twelve feet above it. Naturally, our friend's name was bandied about, because Erik had threatened to strangle Buquet if he caught him anywhere near the girls' dorm again. He had done so at a full rehearsal, quite loudly within earshot of dancers, musicians and stage crew."

"Understand, there were already stories concerning threats made against any who threatened wrongdoing at the school. I cannot help but think Erik, as the voice in the wall for Christine, was also inclined to keep an eye upon the activities throughout the academy, as well…"

I could not help but smile…as yes, it did sound just like something Bouchard would do.

"Ah…you can see that too, Mademoiselle." Mr. Kahn nodded, but his expression was thoughtful… "However, too many thought it was a murder, and Erik was blamed, although no one actually knew him…just of him. There was a police investigation…several men stated Buquet had been blind drunk while prowling the flywalks that night. That he had caught his neck in a double loop and strangled only because he had looped the lines so sloppily…otherwise he would have dropped to the stage when he fell off the flywalk."

"And now, Mademoiselle, I would be unable to give you more than hearsay as I was sent on assignment for several months. I did receive notes from our friend, and they became increasingly…troubling. He spoke of dying…of killing himself, actually. I was concerned, but unable to do more than write him and request he hang on to his common sense until I was returned, and so on."

"We will slip forward to the early spring of 1880…I remember it particularly because our friend would celebrate his fourth decade in April of that year. I was contacted by Antoinette Giry immediately upon my return to Paris, wherein she demanded a private discussion with me, far from the premises of the academy. She expressed to me her grave misgivings as to her brother's mental state, relating several troubling incidents.

"Christine had disappeared for several days, only to return in a state of total exhaustion. Christine, told Giry that Erik had blindfolded her, taken her to his house and shown her a luxuriously appointed room that had been prepared for her. There had been beautiful gowns, jeweled shoes and shawls, fans and hats, as well as diamonds and pearls for her ears and neck. Erik had asked her to sing with him, had taken her for a late night drive every night, and promised her a 'grand tour' of Europe if she would simply never leave him. He had pledged his undying love and devotion, swore he would never ask more of her than she 'be within his eye's sight'."

Mr. Kahn shook his head, saying, "Of course, then the silly girl jerked the mask away from his face while he was at the piano. She swears it was not what was beneath the mask that frightened her, but the rage Erik flew into. She feared he was going to kill her, and then he told her she would never again leave his house, wherein she fell into hysterics. Once they had both calmed down, she said they had been able to come to some peaceful agreement wherein Christine vowed to visit Erik at least once a week at his apartments for her lessons. She says she became very sleepy and then woke up in her own room. Obviously Erik gave her a mild sedative and returned her to her private room at the theater…ah…academy."

"Christine completely forgave Erik his display of temper, and thinking they would return to their usual filial relationship, she welcomed her next lesson, and the next, and the one thereafter. Several days later de'Chagny visited Christine in the public rooms, as he had nearly every evening since her return from Erik's house. On his way to his carriage, Erik dropped a noose over de'Chagny's neck and threatened him with 'the same justice as Buquet'."

Mr. Kahn canted his head, and asked me rather grimly, "I am sure you can see where this is all going, Mademoiselle Butler."

"Yes, rather. I am sure Christine is now paralyzed with fear, de'Chagny is lusting for Erik's blood, and poor Erik is losing his mind."

I received another sharp look from Nadir Kahn, and he pushed on with the story. "The next time Christine disappeared, she was gone for nearly a week. Giry and de'Chagny were in a panic, and I was summoned by Antoinette Giry, who was in tears, pounding upon my door at the break of dawn. I reassured Madame Giry I would do what I could, and immediately visited Bouchard's apartment on the Rue de Opera. Naturally, no one was home…I broke in to insure that was the case, actually, knowing I would catch the devil from the man later."

"Christine was again returned to her room without anyone catching sight of…Bouchard. She related to Giry the events of her visit to Monsieur Bouchard's home. She had been blindfolded for the trip out as before, and sedated for the return. The initial three days were exactly the same as the preceding visit…except that Er…Bouchard had become upset and vowed to kill himself right at her feet when she had rebuked him for threatening de'Chagny. When she began to cry, he locked her in her room and there she had remained for the remaining three days. This time Christine had returned in a state of depression, weeping and inconsolable, remaining in that state for days after."

"I was able to waylay our man, and attempted to speak with him...to reason with him. Bouchard was beside himself...nearly insane with jealousy and enraged that Christine would ever wish to leave him...would 'throw him away for a pretty face', is how he put it. The man's pain was palpable, Mademoiselle…he was heartbroken."

I was again, totally captured by Kahn's story, nearly in tears for the two people of whom he spoke. I could well imagine Bouchard wrestling with his demons, losing his grasp of all rational thought. _Drowning in the terror of his endless nightmare…of forever being alone… an outcast. _

It was not hard to see why Christine had feared this man who had for years been her surrogate father. I, too, knew the shock of looking into the face of my father…and finding a stranger whose eyes were henceforth empty of any filial affection!

I turned to look at the silent dark man who sat across from me, lost in his own reverie. Again, In a voice devoid of emotion, Nadir Kahn spoke, continuing where he had stopped.

"Naturally, Christine resisted…then refused to leave the…the academy, resorting to sleeping in the general dorms with the other girls. She refused to see de'Chagny also, which did not have the desired effect of calming her Maestro the least bit, unfortunately. In fact, Erik was beyond reason by then, and from what I could discover of his intentions… nearly being garroted by the man in the process...well, it was at that point the police were called in. And in the face of fifty armed men, and a packed auditorium, Erik grabbed Christine during an opportune moment, and took her to a hidden place within the theatre itself. And there he held off the police, as well as de'Chagny and myself for the better part of an entire day."

Why was I crying? I felt the tears slipping down my cheeks and the pressure of strong emotion filling my throat. Calmly I withdrew my damp handkerchief and mopped up, resolute in my wish to hear the story to the apparently bitter end. "Forgive me, Mr. Kahn…I am fine…really. Please…continue."

Kahn's face assumed a rather eloquent expression…and I knew exactly what he was thinking. I was 'just another poor, weepy female'. Kahn continued, his voice picking up a bit of nuance as he no longer was just stating fact.

"I understand that…Bouchard…set Christine free, although the story told was that de'Chagny was able to wiggle into our man's hideout and free Christine. All I personally know is that…Bouchard went absolutely mad. He destroyed every bit of music he had written in the preceding years, destroyed paintings and books, musical instruments and…" Kahn held up his hand, saying, "Suffice to say he destroyed everything but the paintings upon the walls. And then he disappeared for several weeks."

Kahn was quiet for several moments, as if lost into a dark study. I spoke quietly, saying, "Vicomte de'Chagny told me…Bouchard did release he and Christine. Something happened…something that accordingly to de'Chagny, utterly sundered Bouchard's spirit. He said…Raoul said…he saw Bouchard's heart broken that day, and it had haunted him for months."

Nadir Kahn raised his head to look at me surprised…and then the tiniest bit light seemed to fill his eyes. "I am…am so happy to have heard that. De'Chagny would never have told me this…"

"Happy to know Bouchard had suffered so? Why…?"

"To know that Erik did, indeed set them free, released Christine despite his…jealousy."

"Oh. I am sorry I thought you…"

"Dear Miss Butler, I know how this subject affects one. I, too, realize how terrible Bouchard's pain must have been to see his young girl turn away from him. To lose everyone you love…to know you will never again…" Kahn turned away, clearing his throat, and began fussing unnecessarily with the tray of fruit.

Was I not the most unfeeling dolt? Of course, Kahn had lost his family…his wife and son! Being a complete, thoughtless idiot, I had failed to put the pieces together. Had he not said he could never leave Persia because of his family…yet, he had been in France for almost twenty years! The stunning realization of this fact, the implications…it all nearly drowned out Kahn's voice.

"…to pay for his sins. At his request I immediately began selling off his property and bond holdings…all of his investments. It took nearly a year to do so, but he paid for every bit of damage done to the theater. Not content with that, he then insured the…the family of the gentleman whom he was charged with murdering was well compensated for the loss of income the man would have given his wife and children. Erik also insured anyone who was laid off from their job during the time the theater was being repaired was fully compensated. And so on. The man was totally insensible to his own health and care, having become convinced he was to die anyway. He wanted no one to suffer because of his "abominable crime" against Christine…er…de'Chagny. He wanted her name to be…'released from all sorrow' is how he put it."

"And where was Erik…Bouchard during all of this? Did he hide, or was he out of the country or…"

After a long dark look, Khan shook his head, but answered my question, saying, "Bouchard remained in Paris. He made himself available to sign the many documents that reduced his years of investments into French francs. He had also found a lawyer who would serve as the liaison between the school and himself in order to finance the repair of the theater, as well as serve to distribute other funds to individuals as he requested. I am afraid our friend must have frightened the man near to death, as I have never received as many signed and witnessed pieces of script for so many minor transactions before. Monsieur Pollé was a quivering bundle of nerves any time I requested an appointment, and was always thorough when accounting for disbursements. The first time I paid him for his efforts on Bouchard's behalf, he looked astonished…I believe he was under the impression he would be working merely to secure his continued existence!"

Kahn grinned for a second, then his expression became somber, as he said, "No, our friend Bouchard was not the kind to run away, Mademoiselle. He was no longer the man he'd been for so long while he had Christine as his student and companion, but he felt he owed recompense to those he had hurt through his actions…"

Kahn stopped just long enough for me to rudely ask, "What happened to the theater? I cannot seem to remember what I was told by de'Chagny and Abrigaun…how was it damaged?"

Kahn's answer was brief, "He set it on fire."

"Ohhhhh." I hated to hear this. I had long ago decided fire would be the only thing to which I would admit fear. It had been a constant concern when we lived in Ireland, with the old stone and post barns having split wood shingles and every stall kept well bedded with straw. Yet I had never witnessed the terrible power of fire until it had leveled an entire block of rowhouses in one evening, leaving many dead, and hundreds on the street with only the few bits they wore. I grew to fear the sound of the fire bell, and worried about my two brothers and father, as they always answered the call for volunteers.

My worst memories entailed the screams of horses and roiling smoke through shuttered windows….

And Bouchard had set the theater…full of people…on fire? I felt sick at the thought.

Kahn was watching me, and his face took a strange twist, as he said, "It was an accident, Miss Butler. He had cut the foremost scenery loose as a diversion to his grabbing Christine and escaping…only to have a top pole hit the attachment that secured the drop-line of a large gas chandelier over the stage. When the hook broke, the line snapped free and dropped the chandelier to the stage, which caught the scenery on fire. The entire stage area of the theater burned. The smoke was the worst part, leaving two of the orchestra members suffering from it's inhalation. Both were well cared for and are since recovered, Mademoiselle. No one else was hurt, and the rest of the theater was unburned. However, a complete refit was necessary, which ran into thousands of francs."

"I see." I shivered at the thought of being inside the theater…ablaze and thick with smoke…and the sounds of people screaming, rushing the exits… Shaking my head to clear those unsettling thoughts, I found Mr. Kahn watching me far too intently.

"Miss Butler…you are…?"

"I am fine, Mr. Kahn. I do not like fire."

"Yes, I can see that."

"And so Bouchard paid for every bit of damage, as well as compensating those who in any way suffered because of the fire?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle."

I nodded, thinking to myself it had very likely beggared Bouchard. And Mr. Kahn? "And I suppose the sale of Bouchard's investments alone was not enough to compensate all those who were harmed?"

Mr. Kahn nodded. "I covered his debts; it is exactly as he would do for me. I have since recouped a great deal of what I lost, and have every expectation of helping our friend do the same. If…and I say, if…he will allow me. Our last visit together did not go well…"

"Mr. Kahn, I cannot imagine why he would not be thrilled to see you…to speak to you. Perhaps I am being foolish, but I do believe everything you have told me this morning. I therefore cannot understand why he would not welcome you…"

His expression rueful, Kahn said, "Ah, but that is the one thing I have not yet told you, Mademoiselle."

With a feeling of disquiet I inquired softly, "Do I need to hear this?"

Kahn laughed. "I merely saved his life."

"And that would make him hate you?"

"My dear, there are times when the very worst thing that could happen to you…might in actuality be the best. So it was that I told him to either turn himself in, or allow me to spirit him out of France. He would not leave…refused to leave Paris! He was living in squalor, his health was beginning to suffer…the man was as thin as he had been when I stole him away to Persia! He looked like death and was very near to being dead." Kahn gestured with his arm…"And it is for these reasons I made covert arrangements to have him captured by the police and deemed insane."

Mr. Kahn's reasons were excellent, and I would never have doubted his sincere wish to save Jerrod Bouchard from dying alone and in neglect. But considering what awaited Bouchard…i.e. the guillotine…

Of course, I did no more than think any of this, choosing instead to say, "I heard he turned himself in. I believe that is what Christine thinks."

"Yes, because that is exactly what I told her."

"I see." I nodded my head, silently applauding Kahn's wish to protect Bouchard.

Mr. Kahn continued, saying, "Therefore, our last meeting was neither friendly or lengthy. It was the last, and only time I visited him at the Rois, early in his incarceration. I told him what I have now told you...that I was the informer who gave the Paris police his whereabouts. He did not wish to hear my reasoning for doing so. At that time he wished me, quite loudly, to the devil."

"I can see him doing that, I confess. Perhaps he had not yet realized his improvement in circumstance?" I returned Kahn's polite smile with one of my own...and asked him quite innocently, "And what was your reply, Monsieur?"

Mr. Kahn pressed his back against his chair, and producing a rather grim smile, murmured, "I told him he would no doubt be Iblis's favorite _concubinus_ long before I attained my just Paradise."

I hid my attack of unseemly mirth with a sputtering cough into my handkerchief. Having a respectable understanding of Greek history, I knew exactly the insult Mr. Kahn had thrown at Bouchard.

After I had recovered, Mr. Kahn was all apology. "Sometimes I do not watch what I say..."

"Dear Mr. Kahn, do you not see it is a damnable classic education that done the crime. You must wonder what kind of woman understands such things!" Laughing, I set my hands upon the table, only to have Kahn's immediately pin mine to the tablecloth.

Nadir Kahn had been laughing with me, but now he leaned forward, his expression intently serious. "You are the kind of woman who can best help Jerrod Bouchard, Aislyne Butler. I knew that the moment I set eyes upon your face, Mademoiselle, that you would be the one to lead him to the light. You would bring him happiness."


	28. Chapter Twenty Seven

**Chapter Twenty Seven**

Naturally, I assume she has summoned Abrigaun!

It is her total lack of surprise at his appearance here in Lyon, no questions or exclamations of astonishment to find him at our door. It is the efficient manner in which she takes his coat and hat, to hang them carefully to dry. The way she then loops her hand through his arm…

To then watch the man embrace her, pull her close, his hands upon her…holding her arms, her face. I feel the blood leave my head…a vast chasm opens somewhere inside my chest…I cannot breathe. Why am I recalled to a night atop the Opera Populaire…!

Stricken, I slam my hands upon the keys, choosing to drown out his voice, and everything I hear in it.

He is there for only for Aislyne…to make her his, it is brazen in every word he speaks. Does she not know this? She must…and yet she has sent for him! I run my fingers with increasing speed down the keyboard, this my howl of rage!

Aislyne turns to me, her eyes wide with something I refuse to acknowledge. I have turned to stone. I hide my torment behind a mask, though not of porcelain or leather. My mask is one of abhorrence and loathing, my lip curls in blatant disgust. Aislyne reads it all so easily and now she too is struck, knows all that she has visited upon me.

The beast within has awakened, and I can do naught but lock my hands into fists, one gripping the pencil, the other at my vest front, squeezing …squeezing, as I fight for control. When I must once again face her, it is as if the icicle that has pinned my heart through has also sharpened my tongue. I find it ridiculously easy to drive the color from her face and darken her eyes with pain and confusion. Who knew the Bard's prose had such power to wound?

Grabbing the sketchbook, I retreat to my room, punctuating my departure with the resounding slam of my door. It is amid the first agitated stride across the room that I realize the vast strategic gaffe I have committed...

I have left the field open…the prize uncontested. I have left Aislyne to the oily attentions of de'Chagny's tame lawyer. That I did so only in the interest of allowing the _poseur_ to live his God-given measure of years without my interference is suddenly immaterial.

Impelled to the door...panting in the effort to stay calm...I quietly drop to my knees and apply my left eye to the large, ornate keyhole…

…only to see Abrigaun patting Aislyne's hands, his voice a soothing rumble. She is facing toward my door but staring wide-eyed at the wall, as her hands pull and lock upon each other, white-knuckled. It is an unsettling look on the face of someone whom I have always found to be so...contained.

Abrigaun leans in toward her, and says quite clearly, "Our friend Bouchard, he is not yet gentled, I see."

'_Gentled'? She is to 'gentle' me?_

Her eyes snap to him, narrowing as she examines his collar. I hear her say, "No. I rather think he is not, Monsieur Abrigaun." Her expression freezes into one of polite annoyance. She looks at my door, and there is an instant when I actually wonder if she knows I am watching…looking out the keyhole at her.

Aislyne straightens her shoulders, and turning to Abrigaun she is suddenly very cool…just short of rude, actually. She asks: "Monty_, __**why**__ are you here_?"

I cannot see his face, but Abrigaun seems undeterred by the lady's ungracious and distracted manner, exclaiming, "But mademoiselle, I am here to help!" Abrigaun continues in this vein, but of course, I am done. I sink to the floor, my back against the wall, and listen, numb, as Aislyne extricates herself from Abrigaun's treacled propinquity. That she does so by deceit, a rising note of panic within her voice, is the lash I wield hardest upon myself.

"Erik", I moan, "you are an ass."

Eventually I am rewarded with the departure of Monsieur Abrigaun. Pulling my door open rather more vigorously than necessary, I meet the disapproving scowls of Chanson, Xavier and Gadreau. I return the favor for Gadreau, turning my attention then to Chanson. "Where has she gone, Dietré?"

Chanson stares, his expression incredulous…then stands to angrily growl, "I have no idea…_Monsieur_…but I believe she should have jumped the next train to Paris and gone home." I am not surprised at the liberty with which Chanson addresses me. We have largely dropped spurious class distinctions in the past few days.

And I feel his censure…cringe at his frank disappointment. I disclaim rather briskly, "Why would she do that?...she would not do that, Chanson. I do not intimidate her in the least!" Is there note of uncertainty…a request for reassurance in my voice? I turn away, not the least interested in facing even Thom's reproach.

"No, but you do an excellent job of riding roughshod over her nonetheless!" Dietré chews a moment on the remainder of that thought, and graciously swallows it. Then shaking his head, he continues. "I can understand you do not care for Abrigaun, _**especially **_as he is much too fond of the Mademoiselle's company. I cannot understand how you could punish her for his…attentions. It is not as if she invited him here…"

I jump upon his words, snapping, "And how would you know she did not?" I try…but cannot muster the slightest bit of menace towards him. Chanson, however, squares himself, his expression that of, "I'm ready when you are!"

For several seconds we consider each other, our expressions less than friendly.

Emanuel Gadreau raises his head, his face grey with fatigue, "Because I did! Or, rather, I telegraphed de'Chagny to inform him of our layover in Lyon, and Abrigaun is the result."

Both Chanson and I turn to stare at the little man with varying degrees of astonishment, as he continues.

"I was required to telegraph de'Chagny immediately upon reaching here to report anything that might be of concern regarding your continued…security. I naturally informed them of our expected long-term halt here in Lyon." Emanuel's expression becomes fiercely defensive; his eyes narrow as he glares first upon Chanson, then me. "I did nothing wrong. And I certainly would not have expected de'Chagny to send his lawyer. Not that it makes any damned difference!"

Chanson turns, his expression now guardedly rueful. "I gathered from Abrigaun's discussion with the Mademoiselle that he will be personally escorting us to Livorno."

Absently, I nod, having returned to self-chastisement. "Yes…I caught that."

Dietré walks to the piano, righting the bench, and removing the cup I left sitting there. For a moment we both look out the windows that face across the front of the Hotel Le Corbusier. Neither rain nor wind have abated an iota; from the look of the horizon to the south, worse is on its way. No shops are open, and the streets are empty.

Chanson turns and shakes his head. "I cannot believe the Mademoiselle would go out in this, my friend."

Neither do I.

***

The man is power-mad. A tyrant! I glare furiously at him, impotent in the face of his implacable refusal to move away from the doors.

"We will not be hunting down Mademoiselle as she were a wayward heifer, Monsieur! We will await her return, and you can make your peace like a gentleman, instead of running her to ground and throwing yourself at her like a…an overheated stag!"

Seething, I can but snarl, "You have sadly mixed your metaphors...and possess a rather sick sense of imagery, Dietré."

"Well, I'll be damned if I do not think the image apt! You have near worn a path from one end of the room to the other, and attempted to pick a fight with Emanuel, me…and even Xavier! The poor boy fled as if Beelzebub himself were on his back! Now...go sit at the piano and play. Go! It is the only **other** thing that tames you, Jerrod!"

Dietré throws his arm out in the general direction of the piano; I can hear the aggravation in his voice; he absolutely radiates anxiety. Does he worry I will throttle him and escape? (And, indeed, I ask myself...why haven't I?)

Frustrated, I circle the apartment yet again, my arms wrapped about my chest, holding in the fear, the insane fear… I stop before my tormentor, to gasp, "I do not wish to busy myself at the piano, Chanson. I wish to find the mademoiselle. Unlike you, I have no unrealistic expectations, no rosy-fogged delusions concerning those who have become significant to me. It is exactly such people who disappear into thin air, never to return. Why should Aislyne Butler behave any differently?"

Chanson shakes his head, saying, "Why, indeed. Perhaps you would know..._**if you could see anything…beyond…yourself!"**_

The rising temper in Dietré's voice is a surprise.

"Do not yell at me!" I growl, and step towards Chanson with as much threat as I can conjure on instant notice.

Dietré stiffens and raises a fist between us, shaking it with each word…"Do not push me, Jerrod! I have reached the end of my patience!"

I raise my eyebrow in mocking alarm, then thrust my upper body forward and _down_, pushing into Chanson's space. "Quelle horreur! I am…"

Chanson's fist connects quite solidly with my left cheekbone; I feel my lower jaw actually swing into the blow as my head snaps to the right.

My last conscious thought is, "Well, now I have done it! Poor Chanson will be cats' meat when Aislyne has done with him…"

I resurface to the sound of murmuring, the sense of arms about me, my body pulled in an awkward upward direction. The scent of roses is balm to my disordered senses; Aislyne is whispering…she is holding me, my face against her breast. I stay limp…relaxed, divinely happy to stay just as I am.

Her arms tighten as she whispers, "My god, what happened here, Dietré!"

"Mademoiselle…mon Dieu! I cannot defend it…I hit him. He has been in an evil mood, daring Gadreau to fetch his pistol, terrorizing poor Xavier until he fled to the public rooms. It is I he is annoyed with, as I refused to allow him to search the hotel…to look for you. And when he moved toward me with that…that bloody-minded look on his face…I hit him!"

Chanson sounds deeply shaken…as well as very bitter. Have I have pushed him too far?

"Now if you will excuse me, Mademoiselle Butler, I will pack my things. You cannot wish to have me attending to…"

"Dietré, hush, you _**will not**_ leave, as I need you, as well does Bouchard. You have done nothing wrong. Bouchard has played the bully and received his comeuppance, as well he should. Far better you than me; I would have shot him in the foot!"

_Me…a bully? _

The melodious rumbling of her voice is soothing against my ear, even if the content is a trifle disturbing.

"Please, _please_ do not allow this to change anything, Dietré." Aislyne is upset.

A cool cloth is laid gently upon my cheek, as another feminine voice whispers, speaking French. "Mademoiselle… Bouchard has been like a caged bear since you left. I was so frightened, I hid in my room with the bed against the door! He seemed intent upon murdering Emanuel…Dietré…and who then would protect me? Why, he might have decided to…"

"_Anna!"_

"That will be all, Anna, thank you." Both Emanuel and Butler interrupt the little fiend's discourse on my anticipated path of murderous depravity. The unmitigated _gall_…!

"Stop grinding your teeth, Bouchard, and open your eyes. I wish to see how swollen this is going to be." Aislyne lightly touches the flesh beneath my left eye.

I erupt from her arms, screeching like a pinched maid. "_**Zut alors!**_ Why was that necessary?" Sitting up, I twist about to glare at her.

Aislyne looks…tired and worried. She scoots across the floor to reach out again with the cool cloth and holds it against my cheekbone. "I am concerned about broken bones. You are not the healthiest specimen, and bones break easily in those who have suffered…privation."

Is that what she sees when she looks at me? Privation…an ailing, infirm derelict? Angrily I shove away her hand, and prepare to abandon the floor.

"No…NO! Bouchard, do not just get up, dammit! Dietré, quick, help me…" She actually wraps her arms about me from behind, tightly, and pulls me back to sit upon the floor before her. Chanson moves toward us, his expression cautious.

Wherein I scowl threateningly, and snap in French, "I would not, Monsieur. Unless you would like a face to match…**_this_**." I jut the livid, tender side of my face at him.

Chanson stares, eyes narrowed for a minute, then quips, "Better that than your…ugly attitude…_Monsieur_ Bouchard."

Aislyne sucks in her breath immediately beside my ear, no doubt shocked at our behavior. After a moment she states grimly, "You two need to stop this. _Now_." Chanson walks away, hands fisted. Aislyne swiftly pushes to her feet, her hands upon my shoulders keeping me floored, then leans over to hook her arms beneath mine and pull me up, despite my protests. The woman has no shame!

I extricate myself from her steadying hold, outwardly making a manly show of shaking off her support. Aislyne wisely steps away, but moves to stand before me. She is sweetly flushed with exertion, and her eyes dart about my face as if cataloging damage.

"Mademoiselle, I am fine." Actually my face is throbbing woefully, and I would like nothing better than to lie down again.

"Yes, that is why one pop in the bone-box knocked you out for a quarter hour…because you are _**fine...**_"

I send a condemning glare at Chanson, saying, "Now see what you have done? I shall have her hovering about, anticipating my eminent demise."

Unrepentant, Chanson retorts, "That should please you! No drama…no slinking about the hotel. You have her at hand to abuse as you wish! Pah!" Dietré walks to the suite doors, and stands, his hand upon the ornate door handle, no doubt unsure if he has been dismissed by 'Milady Butler, or he should just walk out.

I look to the Mademoiselle to find she, too, is watching Dietré, her eyes shadowed. When she speaks, her voice is low, and a bit tremulous. "Dietré, please…go check on Thom. Tell him…tell him…I would like to see him tonight at dinner. We will all eat together tonight and get past this…."

Chanson smiles and nods to the Mademoiselle, but I am given a narrow-eyed glare. He leaves the suite closing the doors silently. I stare after him, wondering how one repairs a broken friendship. Turning to then look upon the authoress of my current turmoil, I find her fine, green eyes alight with simmering rage, welling tears unnoticed.

"Tell me you did not go...'slinking'...about the hotel! Why would you do such a thing, Jerrod?"

For a moment I am struck by her distress…of course, there is more here than the thought of my wandering the hotel, as she knows I did no such thing! I seek a suitably irate expression …only to hiss in surprise at the pain it causes. I must, therefore, settle for sounding annoyed instead.

"_Madame_ Butler, I was not allowed to so much as cross the threshold of this apartment. Yon fine brute threatened me with violence, and then visited it upon me when he thought I meant to press the issue." Feeling decidedly peaky, I snag the cool cloth from her fingers and press it to my throbbing face. "I believe I will now go lie down."

She moves to stand in my path, and places her hands upon my chest. "Why did you become so…angry? What have I done to deserve such contempt…such vituperation?"

Her eyes are still bright with temper, though her tears have stopped. Her misery at my ill-treatment has not abated, however, and I find I must choke down the strange compulsion to throw myself upon my knees and beg for her forgiveness! Instead I concentrate upon the warmth of her hands through the thin fabric of my linen shirt, a most pleasant sensation. I step forward, and capturing both her wrists in my hands, bend them back roughly, while moving into her…sending her backward until she fetches up against the backside of the divan by the fireplace.

For several long moments we stare at one another, near nose to tattered nose. I hold her wrists pressed tightly against her breasts, and the back of my fingers sink into the firm flesh. She has all but stopped breathing, and a soft blush is coloring the velvety skin of her neck and cheeks.

I grin nastily, saying, "I need no reason for my freakish starts, Madame. I am a bully, remember? And a madman."

"You are no more mad than I, Jerrod. And mayhap a great deal less."

I would smile, but am stopped by the conviction in her voice. She is sincere, by God! Does she really imagine she is…

"I hear voices…and…there are other things." Her lips firm, then twist in ironic humor. "I refuse to say more." Quickly she pushes me back a step, my momentary astonishment at her revelations slackening my grasp upon her wrists. Stepping forward, she again stands close, her eyes level with mine. Canting her head, she declares, "But you, sir, are a bully!"

"Do I bully you, Madame?" I am no longer enchanted with the face before me. It has become fierce and taunting, a hard line has formed upon her brow, above eyes as stern and cold as lakewater in winter.

"You would, were you able. I am not, however, a young man barely out of short pants."

"Chanson would be most aggrieved to hear himself described so." Grinning, I show her every tooth in my head; they are, after all, my best feature.

She retains her fierce glare, unamused. "I did not speak of Dietré, but of Thom Xavier. It was patently obvious to me you could not browbeat Chanson." There is a hint of cold humor there…of triumph.

"I was able to run Emanuel off to join his sister, barricaded in her room. It seems you have taken his pistol."

Asilyne drops her chin for a second, then mutters, "A wise move on my part." Again she returns to glaring at me…the word she refuses to repeat is there nonetheless:

'Why?'

As the silence between us stretches beyond awkward I can but stare helplessly into the growing pool of disappointment I find within her fierce regard; I am incapable of making either of us feel better. Finally, her expression flattens and her eyes flutter closed. After a long moment, she breathes, "I do not wish to continue this conversation, Monsieur Bouchard. Please…do go to your room and lie down. If you need something for the pain, you have only to ask. I have several packets of headache powders…"

Turning on her heel she bypasses me neatly and escapes to her room. Her door closes with a snap as she throws the bolt.

I refuse to answer her question…and so she must answer it herself.

***********

My father had only two passionate loves in his life: his broodmares, and his adopted home country of Ireland. Naturally he loved his wife and children, but to be truthful, I believe we were all kept in that room of his heart labeled, 'duty', 'responsibility' and just perhaps 'mixed blessings.'

A Scotsman by birth, Da found the forbidding highlands a miserable, lonely place as a child, raised as he was in the dark years following the century of war and English retaliation that had nearly depopulated the Highlands of Scotland. His ancestors had been firm Royalists who backed England's Hanoverian king, and stayed home from Culloden in 1745, therefore avoiding near extermination with the remainder of the clans. The English allowed the few Sutherland County Butlers to keep every acre of their rocky, desolate and nearly uninhabitable lands, with the proviso that sheep and root vegetables were the primary crops.

It was a poor bargain they made; shunned by neighbors and any surviving remnants of the clans, they barely survived the economic chaos of the late 18th and early 19th century, only to be wiped out during the famines of the 1820's. The Butlers of County Sutherland were reduced to four individuals on the Butler lands by 1830; my Da was the only member of the last generation. The following spring of his 19th year, he became the only Butler in the direct line when his mother and grandparents both succumbed to malnutrition and the influenza. He was the only living heir to the 'vast family estate'.

He hated sheep, ditto 'neeps and 'tatties, and despised the restrictions the English put on his foray into horse breeding. It was a moot point; horses did not do well in the Highlands, as grazing was scarce, and the sheep had ruined what little there was. On his 20th birthday his beloved mare, gravid with her first foal, shattered a leg whilst being chased by feral dogs.

He sold the estate, lock, stock, and sheep herd, to a sports-mad member of the British peerage who intended it as his vacation retreat. The land was useless for naught but hunting, although truth be told, that part of County Sutherland was all but hunted out. To Da's way of thinking, any fool who would consider spending time in the wilds of Sutherland a 'vacation' bloody well deserved what he got.

So it was that Connor Éamon Butler renounced his heritage and resettled in the rural hinterlands of Cork County, Ireland, to become the property manager for the Duke of Arbuthnot, personally caring for the elderly carriage horses and retired racehorses, and overseeing the few tenants and workmen. His employer preferred to stay on his family estate in England, close to London, and gave his property manager full use of the neglected manor house as well. The Duke's 'farm', Ballinhassig, was not near as large as the Butler lands in Scotland, but there was four times the viable pasturage, with several springheads and good wells. The grassland was 'machair' with a calcium sand base, far kinder to the horses than the harsh, stony ground of his childhood home, with acres of good grass, fertile and mineral rich.

Soon Da began buying horses of his own, looking for breeding stock that better fit his idea of what true sport and carriage horses should be. Spending his money on that one excellent broodmare, or an absolutely superlative stallion prospect, eventually he was running his own horses on the Duke's land, albeit with permission. After six years he had acquired a band of twenty-one broodmares and two stallions, and had sold several colts who had gone on to make a big noise in the horseracing and steeplechase worlds.

He made an offer to the Duke for the Ballinhassig farm that would wipe out nearly all of his savings from the sale of his ancestral home…and was shocked when it was accepted.

In 1838, Connor Butler began the business of establishing a horse breeding enterprise the likes of which was not to be found anywhere in Ireland.

His second summer at Ballinhassig, Connor Butler took a young bride, enticing Brighίd Maire Muldoon, the leggy, red-haired innkeeper's daughter, just barely 16 years and a much courted beauty, into falling in love with him. After a short engagement and a small wedding, he carried her over the threshold of the near-restored manor house at Ballinhassig Farm. My mother shared with him a love of horses, and the absolute confidence that life was what one made it. She had common sense, no illusions about married life, loved babies, and was strong in her faith in the Catholic Church.

And Ireland again pleased for it proved to be perfect for the raising of children, the land and that which the Farm grew in it imparting all that was necessary to grow tall, healthy youngsters. All of the four eldest children were boys, coming along at a regular rate that kept Brighίd close to home, happy with her babies.

With the birth of Beyvin, the first daughter, Brighίd's now-widowed mother joined the household, and within weeks of the tiny girl's birth, had Father sleeping in the apartment over the carriage house…alone. She made it clear that five babes in six years was not a good thing, that he would kill her daughter with his unrestrained virility.

His exile lasted all of 3 months before my Mother demanded her husband return to her lonely bed. Unable to coerce her daughter into banishing him, Mother Muldoon began attacking Connor Butler's character instead. She also found him wanting as a Catholic, and constantly reviled him for his little 'ungodly' beliefs. She hated the horses, especially Da's band of pampered broodmares, threatening to poison them or and curse them with barrenness.

That was the only time Mother Muldoon was able to push Father to anger, and it was the last time she openly threatened the mares. "If one tiny hair on any of them gets as much as one twist, it's my foot to your backside you will be cursing next! You'll live outside my gates, woman, and Brighίd willna' speak to you ever again."

**************

I was aware as little more than a toddler that I enjoyed a place of special favor with my father because I shared his pure passion for the horses. Like him I was willing to forego any pleasure, sustain great physical discomfort as long as it was necessary for the ultimate benefit of the mares. My mother and siblings were important to me, as it was by their examples I had some idea of how to deal in the world. But the horses, always the horses, were the center, sharing that distinction with my father. It was with the mares I could forget the dark and hollow places inside. Only Da understood my devotion to the mares, even if our reasons for it were as different as night and day.

My sense of being 'different' grew with each birthday, serving as it did as a reminder of the circumstances of my birth. I was a 'surprise' child, conceived after three years of fallow bliss for my mother. The fact that she bore no further children for nearly five years after left me in the unenviable position of being an only child in the midst of a crowd of siblings. Granny Muldoon never let me forget I was a curse and an abomination to my own family. She, perhaps, could see the thing I was long before I did.

On the occasion of my 16th birthday my mother shared with me…perhaps unwisely...that her entire pregnancy with me, the horrific birth and the subsequent patent disaffection between mother and newborn nearly convinced her she did not wish for more children. "I loved all of my babies from the very day of their conception, Aislyne, even those born after you. All except you."

I was by then an old hand at hiding my feelings, although a knife slid slowly betwixt my ribs into my heart could not have hurt near as badly. Her bitterly frank disclosure provoked me to tears, swiftly hidden. The entire discussion was precipitated by a mother-daughter chat on sex, reproduction and the deleterious effect it had on a woman, welcomed or not. She was aware I knew the mechanics of the process. It was the physical and emotional cost of bearing and raising children that she wished to emphasize. Her point was moot; I had already resolved to never have children.

God forefend I should reproduce a child as unlovable and burdensome as myself.

*************

My problems at the Catholic school had continued unabated until it had become an exercise in sheer stubbornness to attend class every day. I arrived early, completed all assignments in a timely manner, and listened with complete attention when Sister Peter, or Sister Joan-Catherine gave instruction or lectured. I had learned to take notes while not moving my eyes off the instructress during lecture...this was important, as it meant I could not be accused of inattention.

I always signed my assignments with a large, firm hand...inerasable and certainly unavoidably legible...and made sure the sister watched me turn my assignment in, every time. I relied on the basic honesty of the sisters, whatever their personal feelings about me might be. My penmanship was excellent, my working notes for math, geometry, and science were neatly ordered and attached to all work. I had been accused of cheating too many times.

In every subject save one I excelled. Oh, nobody ever told me this; it was the lack of marks on my returned papers and the silence on my performance in these subjects. That did not mean I was a 'good student', however.

Harassment in the classroom was unending some days. I had so far been unsuccessful in making one friend from among the girls who also attended school. I had no interest in dolls or 'play' as they defined it; besides, no caring parent would allow such friendship, as I could only ruin their daughter by association.

I ignored the knowing looks and snickers for weeks after my run in with Father 'Handy' Graves, the tale spread by the three other girls who had abandoned me to my fate. The fact I looked as if I had been beaten badly about the face earned me no consideration from fellow students or the nuns. Father Graves was still not returned to his duties due to unnamed physical injuries, and increasingly wild stories tying the circumstances together were rife...none of which were the least bit kind to me.

It was the next scholastic quarter, after Graves returned to his duties at church and school, that my real problems began.

After the first few weeks, and every two weeks thereafter, a report by Sister Mary Jesus was sent to my parents regarding my current and continuing unruly and disruptive behavior in the classroom. Every two weeks I met my mother at the door with the report in hand, and received my whipping behind the washhouse as a result. Initially Mama would then cry and cajole, weep and bawl. "You shame us with your behavior! Why do you do this to your family! The entire county knows of the hoyden Butler girl...what of your sisters? Do you realize you condemn them by your behavior?"

Thoroughly ashamed of the distress my actions lay upon my family yet unwilling to change them, I accepted my punishment. In the beginning I cried. After the fifth or sixth episode, I stopped, merely wearing a façade of resentment to hide the bottomless grief. My mother's lectures and tears stopped as well. Her arm grew stronger and the lashing harder.

Nonetheless, I would not stay in the classroom if Father Graves entered. I left the building several times a month when he came in to teach the biblical history class. We had this class as often as twice a week unless he was traveling to another part of the parish, which happened with regularity, but certainly not enough frequency.

The relationship between my mother and I swiftly deteriorated, her demeanor changing from the standard inattentive care to frequent expression of disapproval and frustration with everything I did. I did my best to please in every other way, but in vain.

By my 10th year, I had accepted my lot as that of social pariah and family scapegrace, and had retreated rather firmly into books, sketching, and more frequent forays into the comfort and anonymity of the night.

I had alienated my mother even before birth, endangered the lives of my siblings multiple times, and by age 12 years succeeded in breaking my father's heart so terribly he chose never speak to me or look me in the eye again.

Eventually I killed them both as surely as had I set their Cannon Street business afire myself.


	29. Chapter Twenty Eight

Author's Note: Yes, finally, I have returned. My daughter is married. My hubby sailed through his radiation treatments, and the last tests were extremely encouraging, Praise God! I handed him his dustmop and dishrag and said, "Now…back to work, varlet!" (He's a retired house-husband!) Gotta break him of the cake-baking habit however, as he kept up his weight, along with adding to daughter's and mine!

Much to my disgust I am still employed, and I do believe someone higher in the municipal chain of command said something to my new boss and harasser. She still delights in making my workday miserable, but does so at the expense of appearing petty and extremely silly to the other in the office. Shhhhhh! Yes…they KNOW!

I will post 'em as fast as I do, not any faster. Realize that I write and rewrite convulsively and sometimes it takes a couple 3-milers with the dog to get the words correct.

Feedback is _always_ nice.

Chapter 28

That afternoon I received a note from Abrigaun stating he would need my presence the following forenoon as we would be making revised arrangements for travel. The tone of said missive was completely unremarkable; no 'Passionately Yours' above his signature, or obvious tear stains.

No matter...at dinner I put the note upon the table for all to see after reading it aloud to those of the party who sat about the table with me. Bouchard eyed it darkly, then snapped his eyes to mine, wherein we shared a few moments of mutual brooding. He had an gloriously colorful contusion ringing his left eye that went from the _zygomatic _up along the _supraorbital _beneath his dark brow. It was a ruddy-purple, edged in ocher, and contrasted vividly with his pale complexion. Combined with the scabby double scratch down his right cheek, and the scarring above that, one would think he'd run afoul of a wildcat possessing a serviceable right cross.

Eventually we both realized those around us had become utterly silent; Anna and Thom were watching us with unabashed curiosity. I dropped my eyes to my plate, and said, quite clearly, "If anyone would care to come along tomorrow, I would welcome their company."

Apparently no one did.

Feeling quite put out, I finished my meal and adjourned to my room, to pull on riding boots, Ulster and scarf. Thus prepared for muddy, cold, wet weather I strode, head high, past my faithless companions, and out the suite doors. I sought the solace of those who truly appreciated my company, at least as long as I had apples and molasses cookies stuffed in my pockets.

Taking the servant's stairs as they terminated at the back of the hotel near the kitchen…I needed apples and cookies…I passed the Gadreaus carrying the evening's dishes down. When I informed Emanuel of my decision to visit the horses, he scowled, saying, "You should not go out alone, Mademoiselle Butler. It will soon be dark!"

I patted my side, where my pistol rested, saying "Oh, pooh!" Anna giggled shyly, repeating to her brother, "oh pooh!' She really was a strange young woman… Thus unhappily reminded I still had decisions to make, I ducked my head and escaped down the stairs, leaving the Gadreaus…and hard decisions…behind.

The heavy wind and hard rain had eased, and despite visible damage to those things manmade, had left a scrubbed look to the world in general. The wide expanse of red-bricked stableyard was free of the usual muck piles and debris, although several large downed tree limbs had been piled near the edge by the street. Everything possessed an unearthly glow, no doubt due to the sulfurous light of the overcast late afternoon. Most surprising was the warmth; I quickly shed my heavy coat and scarf, laying them over an empty stall door, safe from Aminta's investigating lips.

Checking that water and hay were both fresh, I doled out treats and preliminary scratches. I pulled Aminta from her stall to clean the mud from her legs and pick out her feet...I did not wish to have that knocked off into her bedding. Returning her to the large box stall, I pulled on my shabby grooming gloves, fetched the grooming box and began working the tangles from her mane and tail with a wide-toothed steel comb until her mane rippled free, below her elegant neck and her tail hung straight to her pasterns. After cursory brushing to remove the muddy scuffs across her wide back and belly, I began scratching her withers and girth line using my gloved fingers like a rake; Aminta pretend 'groomed' my hip with her lips, swaying her body to bring the itchier places to my fingers.

True bliss for both of us, I admit it.

Eventually John began nickering and giving me calf's eyes, begging shamelessly for like attentions, finally resorting to hanging his head over the adjoining wall to nudge me with his prehensile horsy lips. His retreat was just as inevitable, compelled by a jealous Aminta's teeth. After several such skirmishes, the mare was becoming quite agitated defending 'her' pleasures from usurpation, and twice I narrowly avoided being stepped upon when she whirled to launch attacks at John.

Disgusted, I snapped at the gelding, "Damn you, John! Can you not wait your turn?"

"You chastise the wrong one, Butler. You have spoiled that mare."

Heart hammering, I whirled at the sound of Bouchard's voice. After a moment spent gathering my wits, I was able to respond coherently, if not at all politely. "What are you doing here, Bouchard?"

"It would seem Emanuel possesses that which you and I do not: _common sense_. I am here to protect you from the attentions of the disreputable riffraff that hang about." Bouchard entered John's box, grabbed the large gelding's halter, and firmly pulled him from Aminta's reach. Hanging his hat and coat upon the stall door, he gestured toward the wide horse brush in my grooming box.

I dropped it into his waiting hand, and making no effort to hide my irritation, snapped, "Emanuel presumes too much. I am fine...I need no one's protection!"

Bouchard ignored me, proceeding to give the big bay a vigorous grooming. I watched resentfully until he disappeared below John's back to work at his belly. Once he had reappeared farther back along John's side, Bouchard stopped, looking a trifle pale, to lean against the far side of the stall.

No stranger to black eyes, I knew how painful they could be until the initial swelling subsided. No doubt this flush of activity was making it throb like a rotten tooth.

Bouchard's low growl broke into my thoughts...and I realized I had been staring...

"Do you find this impressive? No doubt Chanson has grown in your estimation." Bouchard thrust forward his right side...a move that was not quite what he'd intended, I'm sure. I firmly repressed a smile, saying, "That would be an odd thing to give merit. No, I am quite content believing Dietré a peaceable man by nature, and his action…," here I made a gestured reference to Bouchard's black eye, "…predicated by self defense, not a pugnacious temperament."

Bouchard's expression flattened; he turned away to rub one hand along the bay's topline, stopping to give due attention to John's withers. When the gelding twisted his head about in appreciation of Bouchard's efforts, the man's lips drew up in a grin.

It was very difficult to remain angry with anyone who found pleasure in giving such delight to one of God's lesser creatures. Looking away, I stripped the grimy leather gloves from my hands and slapped them against the side of the stall. "Far better had _**I**_ hit you, Bouchard, and saved poor Chanson a great deal of misery!"

Bouchard's response was delivered without pause in his vigorous scratching. "No one shall be hitting me in future, Madame."

"Agreed, Monsieur. And I reiterate: Chanson feels he acted in self defense." I scraped a spot of mud from Aminta's shoulder, then looked across at the dour man in the adjacent stall. "I certainly hope your friendship with Dietré was a price you were willing to pay for this unnecessary drama. I believe he is quite put out with you."

With that Bouchard seemed to diminish just a bit, and his chin sank to his chest. "Yes, I suppose he is." Abruptly, he moved, grabbing John's halter and passing neatly beneath the gelding's neck to the near side. Turning his back to me, he began grooming the gelding's barrel and wide back. After a long silence, I realized our conversation was at an end.

I turned away to let myself out of Aminta's box stall, ignoring my spoiled mare's demands for more attention. I would return to the hotel, walking away as quietly as possible, as surely Bouchard was far too busy to notice my leaving. Having put my grooming box away, less the brush now being applied to John's glossy hide, I moved to fetch my long coat, thrown over the stall door next to Aminta...

"Butler!"

I whirled, loudly retorting, "_'__**Miss**__ Butler,' if you please_!"

I was given a guarded look; Bouchard enunciated carefully, "_Miss _Butler. Please…I ask that you do not leave yet." Without further explanation, he returned to John's grooming.

Bouchard spent the next quarter hour fussing with his horse, whilst I wandered the stable, petting the barn cat and the fat, white cart pony. As I watched two of the kitchen girls fan themselves by the hotel's back entrance I debated the idea of going back to the hotel despite Jerrod's request (demand!) I stay. And I would have...but for the hint of desperation I had felt in his voice.

The failing light meant a drop in temperature, and the chill persuaded me to wrap my large wool scarf about my shoulders. Hugging it beneath my crossed arms, I stared at the burgeoning lights of the hotel, lost in mindless review of the day's amazing, infuriating, depressing events.

I therefore started in surprise yet again when Jerrod's voice cut through my ruminations, and he materialized from the dark of the stable, his open coat rendering his white shirt an apparition without form. I spun about, my hands held stiffly before as if in defense…only to have them clasped tightly and pulled to his chest. Shaken and embarrassed, I stood stiffly while he stared quite rudely into my face. Unfortunately, the longer we stood so, the harder my heart pounded, and quicker my breathing.

His mouth flexed, as if contemplating a word…or a cutting observation. I closed my eyes, no longer strong enough to hide my disorder should it be the latter.

"Mademoiselle Butler…Aislyne. _Please…_" His voice was deep, with an edge of tension.

Startled, I opened my eyes to look into his face…only to drop them to the fine linen of his shirt, unnerved by his expression, and focused instead upon the fair skin of his throat, laid bare in his dishabille. I watched fascinated as the pulse beat strongly below his right ear and he swallowed several times, obviously in the throes of strong emotion.

"_Ma chère ami_, I wish…I wish to apologize. I wish us to forget this day…to…" His thumbs were at my wrists, circling…smoothing...

For just a second I felt overwhelmed…his words…the warmth in his voice…his touch… My voice quavered terribly, yet automatically I _would_ assure him, "You need not apologize, Jerrod. I _realize_…"

I was suddenly pulled a good deal closer, his large hands having swept up my arms to bracket my shoulders tightly. My reflection within his eyes was ringed in luminous, fiery green, and his voice was angrily strident. "Do not treat me as if my behavior is excusable because of my…_my __inadapté__ment,_ _Miss_ Butler! My conduct was the result of…petty conceit and foolish assumption! Of believing _you_ brought Abrigaun here…that _you_ had invited him! I thought you wished…" Jerrod's face twisted, and I was hit with the intangible force of his helpless confusion …and another, quite elusive something that pulled the very air from my lungs. Gasping at the raw emotions, I pulled back.

Bouchard released me…all but threw himself from me, backing away and turning so that his face was hidden by dark hair and lifted collar. We both remained so, frozen in the moment, or perhaps frightened by the violent emotions that swirled about us. I shared his sense of vulnerability, of having no compass for the unfamiliar place we both occupied at this moment.

Blindly I sought something to say, a graceful retreat from the emotional ledge I teetered upon…and fell upon my secret weapon against any strong emotion: humor.

With a shaky laugh I said, "Trust me in this, Bouchard…I would have rather _walked_ to Italy then to have invited Abrigaun to join us." When this elicited no response whatsoever, I added, quietly, "Furthermore, I would never have asked Abrigaun here without _first_ talking with you."

Perhaps he was surprised...or rather more likely he doubted my words; fluidly he heeled about to set me again as subject to his piercing regard. I never flinched…it was the truth, afterall…

He dropped his eyes, growling, "I realized that…much too late." I refused to react to this revelation.

I could see him well; loss of my night vision had not yet manifested as an inevitable curse of my advancing years. Pulling his fingers through the long sweep of hair that would otherwise hide his right cheek, his expression became vaguely... sheepish. "I was of the impression you and Abrigaun…I see he is quite taken with you, Mademoiselle." He spoke with deceiving mildness, but I felt his anxiety. _Felt it…_

He continued, his manner still detached. "And perhaps you find his attentions...flattering…"

I shook my head, my eyes never leaving his. "No. I do not."

"Mademoiselle…_Aislyne_…" Again the sense of tightly-held emotion, the restraint apparent upon his face…in the very set of his shoulders. "Can you find it within you to…to forgive my boorish, ungentlemanly…" He stepped toward me; I met him halfway.

I could not stop my hand from lightly cupping his right cheek, soberly adding, "unreasonable?…"

"…Yes, of course…_unreasonable_…treatment of you this morning?"

"I have…rather, I _can_ do that, my dear Bouchard."

"I am...I am humbly grateful." Searching for mockery, I found none in his face…only open relief, and the sense of his distress evaporating.

I shook my head ruefully, saying, "This apology is unnecessary.…" I slid my hand to his shoulder, shaking him slightly, to say, "I am not..."

...Only to be cut off when he gathered my hands in his, expression pleading, "Please tell me…_assure me_…you are not merely placating the madman to whom you have been shackled, Madam! I realize I behave abominably, I have no control over my stronger emotions. But I need your _honest _friendship, Aislyne…I need your… _companionship_." The slightest hint of humor lingered about his lips, yet again I felt the desperation behind his words. Without thought, I found the fingers of both hands had firmly entwined with his; looking down I marveled at the intimacy to be found in holding his long, elegant fingers in such a way.

"I am not sure what you are asking me, Bouchard. But…if you mean that I should not…_abandon_ you in terror of your...sensitive nature, put your mind at ease. I do not find you at all intimidating, or frightening. You are a soulfully expressive man, not a stick in a frockcoat, and I…I quite admire that about you." Meeting his doubtful look with a bit of attitude, I added, "Even at those times I might wish I was not the primary addressee!"

His lips quirked and I could not stop my own smile. Pulling my hand free, I again touched his face…drawn to the side shadowed by the long wing of his dark hair. "And never think I am 'shackled' to you. I was given the chance to walk away from this immediately after our first meeting at the Rois. You _do_ recall that meeting Bouchard?"

His lips stretched into a faint smile. "I remember quite well, dear lady. With fondness I recall the colorful scolding laid upon one witless boy vicomte. A pity none but you and I understood a word." His smile became a grin…

Laying two fingers across his lips, I shook my head. "Had I any idea you knew what I was saying, I would have…well...I was greatly irritated by the man's pecking and pulling at me. I did so wish to speak to you…and..." I could no longer ignore Bouchard's growing amusement. "Go on, then. Laugh at me. However, what I was referring to, Monsieur, was _your_ behavior. Why, you had both de'Chagny and Abrigaun convinced they were sending me into dire peril"

Bouchard seemed taken aback, his laughter arrested. "No…really? I had no idea either had the wit to realize it." We stared at one another for a moment, wherein I elected to believe Bouchard was _not_ being serious...and continued.

"Nonetheless, I _chose_ to take the assignment as your nurse-companion despite your…shocking behavior at the Rois. Both de'Chagny and Abrigaun did their best to convince me I would be far happier to forget the assignment and return home. However,"... I tipped my chin assertively,..."I was not to be swayed."

Bouchard seemed troubled by this, and pulling my free hand from his collar, again trapped it within both of his, where the fingers of my right hand were still entangled. "Ah, sweet lady, they were right."

I opened my mouth to declaim this judgment, but was stopped by his expression. I knew his next words even before he spoke.

"If given that choice today, you would still…take the assignment?"

I nodded, saying, "I would". The sudden welling of emotion within rendered further speech impossible; I dropped my eyes to hide it.

Someone cleared their throat nervously a few feet to my left, then said my name.

I froze, snapping my gaze to Bouchard…who appeared to have expected our company. "Dietré, would you be so kind as to fetch the Mademoiselle's coat from the stable? You have frightened her into paralysis."

Having regained my senses, I sputtered, "What…no! I was merely…"

He laughed quietly, and smoothly pulled his fingers from mine, to then tuck my hand about his arm, and turn us toward the hotel.

Voice cool, Chanson responded, saying, "I will fetch Mademoiselle Butler's coat…' and adding in French, "…This I do for the Mademoiselle." He marched off toward the stable, the small lantern he carried flashing erratically across the cobbles of the yard.

I mourned the loss of friendship between these men.

We awaited Chanson at the hotel's back entrance, neither of us speaking. Bouchard kept his eyes forward, his expression thoughtful, yet his hand stayed atop mine, his fingers tap tap tapping to silent music only he could hear. At the sound of Chanson's approaching boots, Bouchard released me, and taking the coat from Chanson's reluctant hands, put it in mine, saying, "You do not mind if Chanson and I have a moment, Mademoiselle?"

Chanson stepped back, his expression cautious…but I could not help but smile at the look in Jerrod Bouchard's face. Nodding at Chanson, I said, "I will bid you both good night, then."

I stopped just inside the wide kitchen entry, as if to shift my heavy coat upon my arm; the sound of Bouchard's deep voice…pitched again to that of humble apology…restored a great deal of my wellbeing. I ascended the stairs with a far lighter heart.

**************

Upon hanging my heavy Ulster in its place in the wide closet in my room, my fingers encountered one slim letter addressed in a light, feminine hand, and an abnormally thick packet covered on one side in Louise' firm, looping script.

Once I was tucked comfortably within my bed, pillows piled behind me and the large lamp turned up, I broke the wax seal pressed upon the back of Christine de'Chagny's letter.

March 29, 1884

Dear Mademoiselle Butler,

As I am writing, my son and husband are napping. I am feeling entirely well, although perhaps a bit tired, but certainly I am well recovered from the birth of my darling son. I hope I am not imprudent in telling you how richly this child has blessed my life. I feel very safe in saying Raoul would agree entirely.

At your suggestion, (I am told), Raoul stayed with me during our son's birth. We both felt this experience strengthened our bond to one other, as well as Raoul's to his son. Aaron has a father eager to watch him grow day by day. I am deeply in your debt, Mlle. Butler.

Similarly, Mademoiselle Nicollier has been a blessing beyond my humble ability to express by ink and paper. She has given me a safe place to lay my troubles, and provided guidance when I certainly had no one to whom I could speak frankly. And again, I am in your debt!

I know you have my Angel in your care, and for this reason I have found peace…as well as blessed sleep. Please write me if you feel comfortable doing so, and let me know how he prospers. I have no doubt he will soon find his proper place in the world, as he is richly blessed. He has his great talent and the heart and soul of a gentleman. And now he has You. I know that within the year Paris will be hearing of a musical genius, a man of great talent, living there in Tuscany. My Maestro spoke so often of wishing to share his music with the world, and I have faith this will happen for him at last.

I have one request, my dear Mlle. Butler, although it is your decision if it would help, or harm my Maestro. Could you please convey to him this which I would tell him myself if I could!

Please--_please_ tell Monsieur that I await the day he will again remember me as '_mon bébé_', and '_ma petite' __chanteur' _! Tell him my affection for my Maestro has never changed, and that I include him in my prayers every evening, just as when I was a child and we said them together. Tell him I have never said 'goodbye', but instead, 'until we meet again.' He will understand!

With your help I refuse to believe anything but that my Angel's happiness is assured. God bless you!

Respectfully,

Christine

Vicomtess de'Chagny

Maison de'Chagny, Mouton, France

Wiping my eyes and nose, I belabored myself for mawkish sentimentality over a few lines from Christine de'Chagny. I was happy the lying in had gone well…had never a doubt Simoné would bring the young couple through the birth of their child in good form. However, it was a trifle depressing to realize Christine de'Chagny was never far from thoughts of her Maestro, and still hoped he would someday resume his role as a father-figure in her life. I had no idea how Bouchard felt about the young woman who still loved him so deeply, or if he, too would ever wish the relationship mended.

I folded the two sheets of elegant paper and slipped them into the envelope with its faint whiff of Christine's floral scent. Looking at the large packet sent by Louise, I felt a vague unease…almost as if the contents were something unexpectedly ominous and disturbing, and not at all the amusing potpourri of news, private confidences, and comically bizarre editorializing that had heretofore assured her letters were high entertainment. After a moment's consideration, I put the packet, along with the letter from the Vicomtess de'Chagny, in the basket that served me so well as a carry-all, beneath my travel quilt. Tomorrow I would investigate the mysterious bale from Louise. Tonight I was tired, and longed for untroubled sleep.

Naturally, once I had turned down the lamp and settled upon my pillow, I began to consider how…and when…I could deliver Madam De'Chagny's private message to Bouchard. Perhaps we would have time for a ride tomorrow afternoon so I could do so away from other ears. The thought of a ride was attractive, the future beyond that was not.

Too soon we would again be aboard the Pullmen, rattling down the length of France, if the request to the stationmaster was approved. We would then pack everything from the railcars on board of a passenger ship…at least, that was my plan. I sincerely hoped the several days spend aboard the ship would be as comfortable and peaceful as the one I had just spent aboard the steamer that brought me across to France.

I remembered again my thought this very morning of how pleasant it would be…could be…once we were settled in the de'Chagny villa in Livorno. Of course, that was before Abrigaun had wedged himself amongst us for the remainder of the trip to Livorno.


	30. Chapter Twenty Nine

**Chapter Twenty Nine**

Having tendered our cards to the young man behind the front desk, the wait in the Stationmaster's front office then grew interminable, made doubly so with Abrigaun's growing impatience. Twice he furiously questioned the pale young man whose desk guarded the door to Rosseau's office in clipped French.

"Our appointment was for 9 o'clock, young man. What is the reason for this delay?" Soon thereafter, he was again at the desk, saying, "It is now half past the hour, boy! How much longer are we expected to sit here?"

Twice the young man stuttered through an embarrassed apology and assured us Monsieur Rosseau would see us as soon as possible. "Il est occupé, très occupé ce matin…" he finally offered, his eyes wide with terror, but gamely sticking to his post.

The occasional shuffling across the floor, tuneless humming, and long stretches of silence from behind the ornately glazed doors to Rosseau's office seemed to belie the young man's words.

As Abrigaun's frustration grew higher and hotter, the man positively expanded with menace; he paced whilst I sat, maintaining my composure in the face of his growing displeasure. Actually, I fought the urge to rise and shove him into a chair, demand he sit quietly and act his age. After all, whatever Rousseau's problem, he would **have** to see us eventually, and it was not as if either of us had more pressing things to do!

It was merely unfortunate Abrigaun had arrived to this appointment having already engaged in one heated battle of wills.

***********

Bouchard did not come out of his room this morning, as if unwilling to endure the very sight of Abrigaun. Quite frankly, I was vastly relieved. Dealing with my own temper today would be hard enough; I did not wish to watch Bouchard struggle with his. He had, therefore, spared us both.

Of course, Abrigaun rapped upon the suite doors far earlier than I would have thought necessary. I was at the piano, idly picking my way through one of Bouchard's hand-scored tunes, sipping at a mug of creamy coffee. I had chosen to wear the business-like dove grey suit, which succeeded in hiding any 'feminine' attributes I might otherwise display. My hat, gloves, and the leather portfolio of travel papers were close to hand upon the piano. There would be no time for one of Abrigaun's distressing displays of affection: I would be ready to go as soon as he was at the door.

Therefore, upon Abrigaun's distinctively vigorous knock, I pinned up my hat and took up gloves and the portfolio, as Anna answered the door. I could not help but take one last gulp of my coffee. Setting it down, I found Abrigaun at my elbow.

"Good morning, my dear Mademoiselle Aislyne! What is that aroma most amazing that comes from your cup?" His voice was entirely too loud and I fought the urge to clap my hand across his mouth.

"Let us go, Monsieur Abrigaun. I am quite ready." I started for the door. I did not wish Abrigaun to be in our quarters more than a minute or two.

Of course, Abrigaun did not budge. "But Mademoiselle, we need not hurry. There is time before our appointment with the stationmaster..." I could not hide my grimace as his voice easily filled the suite. Rushing back, I grabbed his arm and steered him to the door. "We need to go, Abrigaun. We can take the scenic route to the station."

We had no more than crossed the threshold, and Anna closed the doors behind us, than Abrigaun's arm began to slide about my waist, and his hand sought my far shoulder. "Mademoiselle Butler, I would take just a moment…," looking up and down the deserted hallway, "…and kiss you good morning!"

Avoiding his arms, I stepped out of reach, and held the portfolio out between us. Speaking as softly as I could, I declared, "Monsieur Abrigaun, I beg pardon, but whatever I might have done to give you the impression I would welcome such...such attentions...I wish to assure you, _**I do not**_!" I saw my outstretched arms were trembling, as was my voice. Disconcerted, I firmly brought the portfolio against my chest.

Abrigaun blinked. "_Ma petite chère_!. But _naturellement_ you are all innocence…and I! I am _un __chien de cabot_…I cannot stop myself from..."

"Hush, Monty...please!" I suddenly realized I was right before Bouchard's room...the locked door that provided direct access to his room was but a few paces from where we stood. I turned and marched for the stairs, yanking on my gloves, leaving Abrigaun to catch up.

We did not speak again until after he had handed me into the closed carriage, and given our direction to the driver through the transom. Sitting beside me on the padded bench, he leaned forward to pull the curtain over the window.

Alarmed, I turned to pull open the heavy drape across the window on my side of the carriage, only to find it permanently affixed.

"Mademoiselle, I would speak to you further of my feelings."

I turned to find Abrigaun's face inches from mine. I was immediately reminded of a kiss...a most divine kiss...that had rendered me witless for several minutes thereafter; (a state no doubt exacerbated by lack of sufficient sleep the night before).

As if cued by celestial prompt, my mother's voice rang clear in my head, another homily delivered in her blunt style: "Never feed a cat you do not intend to keep!" I found it necessary to swallow the urge to laugh outright, gasping convulsively instead. How _apropos_ to liken dear Monty to a large, overly-affectionate house cat!

Abrigaun was sitting far too closely in the intimate confines of the closed carriage. I slid to the wall, the result being my right shoulder located at my ear. "Monsieur…Monty, I beg of you! Do not do this. I have no wish to hurt your feelings..."

"I cannot but do this! I must tell you of my feeling, _ma bell_ Aislyne! Never!...never I have known a woman such as you! I am overcome whenever I am in your presence with _penchant profondément_! I have felt this never before for any woman!"

For an instant I mused if perhaps Abrigaun had confused 'love' and 'fondness'. Looking into the worshipful face of my would-be _amoroso_, I decided it was moot. There was the original...and quite insurmountable fact that _whatever he felt, he had no right_! In matter of fact, he should have been at home, in Paris, taking his family for a drive through the park, or perhaps in his office, carrying out his responsibilities to the de'Chagny's.

Instead he was here, attempting to make love to the dry, elderly hired companion of Christine de'Chagny's insane Maestro. The situation called for strong application of cold-blooded common sense.

First things being first, however, I dropped my politely pleasant expression, firmly placed my hand upon his closest shoulder and pushed. "You will move over now. I am quite squashed against the side of the carriage." My voice had not one lover-like note in it.

Abrigaun seemed unaffected by my abrupt change in manner; his boyish adoration never dimmed. "Oh, Mademoiselle…I do apologize profusely, I am but a thoughtless _débile__._" Obediently he slid aside until there was sufficient room that I might quit my awkward corner. Critically I eyed the mere double hand-span of open upholstery between us; as if in response, Abrigaun adjusted his hip to open a finger's width more, smiling with patent forbearance.

Clearing my throat, I took aim at the man's illusions of his _biddable_ Mademoiselle Aislyne.

I snapped, "Monsieur Abrigaun, why did you come to Lyon?"

Abrigaun mistook my question for coquettish repartee despite my dour expression, and reaching for my nearest hand, cooed ardently, "Mademoiselle, why...as I said, to set your party back upon his tracks, haha, as they say. You do admit, this, it fits quite well, eh? Back on his…ah…your…the…tracks."

I pulled my hand firmly from his reach, asserting, "I quite prefer you do not! In fact, I demand you allow me to deal with the stationmaster. I realize you quite see yourself as having come to our rescue, but that is not true, Monsieur. You have done nothing but throw my patient into a crisis, which resulted in injury. This I cannot have. His wellbeing is my most important consideration…it is, after all, my job!"

Abrigaun's expression vacillated between stunned and conciliatory; I looked away as if in disgust, and continued, my voice hard. "Did I not indicate I had already decided to alter our itinerary? I await only the cleaning of the Pullmen, which happens this upcoming Friday. I would then have gone to Monsieur Rosseau, and directed he set the cars for travel to the south of France." I turned a chilly glare upon Abrigaun, chin canted, daring him to argue. "I would prefer the cars cleaned before we reboard them."

Abrigaun seemed confused at my hostile tone, but gamely assured me, "I had not thought of that. Very wise, Mademoiselle." After a moment he tried again, saying, "But Mademoiselle...I cannot believe you wish to deal with this man...Rosseau. Is he not difficult...an overbearing bourgeois? Would you not rather I deal with him for you?"

The outrage in my voice came easy; "Why would I prefer _you_ do this for me? Do you think me incapable of doing this myself? Do I appear helpless to you?"

Abrigaun appeared to be shrinking before my ersatz ire; I felt a trifle breathless at my own capacity for humbuggery…

"No…no, Mademoiselle Butler. I did not wish to imply you were… helpless, _non_. But perhaps dealing with this man Rousseau, who, as I recall, is not…not always a gentleman_ poli_…"

"He, my dear Abrigaun, has not laid one hand upon me. Nor has he attempted to kiss me, or put his hands…" My face flaming with very real embarassment, I could only sputter in contrived indignation.

Abrigaun began waving his hands, his eyes darting about as if surrounded by a flock of disapproving dowagers. "Mademoiselle Butler...yes…yes…I mean, _non_! He has not, of course! I feel _absolument_ you are capable of dealing with this…and indeed, you have done so, _non_? However, ah…"

Abrigaun pulled at his collar and brushed down his vest, as if taking a moment to reconsider his words. Speaking to his boots, he said, "I am to accompany you to Livorno, and therefore you may…ah, _comme __vous désirez_, rethink your obligations. I will be available to perform such tiresome tasks for you." Shooting a quick look to me, he quickly added, "_Only_ if you wish, _naturellement_."

Poor Abrigaun had nothing of the lover left in him now. He looked ready to throw open the carriage door and jump to escape the ill-tempered, stone-faced dragon who glared at him from two feet away… No matter, I could not let up yet. The man needed to _go home_…

I tossed back my head like a hen sighting upon an unfortunate, fat bug, declaring, "My responsibility has always been the disposition and welfare of my patient. In this case, and by extension, that means also those who are associated by that responsibility. I speak of the Gadreau's, Chanson and Xavier..."

"Oui, oui! I believe you feel this…this _re__sponsabilité_. But could you have foreseen being stranded here, in Lyon…"

I stared at him for a beat as something Mr. Kahn said slipped into place. Narrowing my eyes, I said, "Noooo…but you must have known, Monsieur Abrigaun. You indicated you have traveled to Livorno many times with the de'Chagny family. Would you not have known the rail lines going east past Chambery would be blocked by storms and heavy snow for several weeks in the spring? I understood it to be a yearly occurrence, well known to all who travel by rail to Italy."

Abrigaun set his teeth, hard, flexing his newly barbered jaw…a welcome sign of temper, as this meant the lover was surely vanquished… "A mistake was made, I admit."

"And why should I trust the man who put us going east into untenable conditions to do any better sending us south?" Smugly, I crossed my arms and looked to the front, afraid I would start giggling should I look at poor Abrigaun.

The tenor of Monty's response was markedly sarcastic; "Because there is but one way south, and weather affects it not at all…or very little. Floods and perhaps occasionally a heavy storm…"

"Excellent! I therefore do not require you at all to change the itinerary. You may drop me at the train station, and return to the hotel." I nodded, chin outthrust in apparent self-conceit of winning the point. I motioned rudely for him to pull open the curtain, so I might see out. "I will request a fiacre be called for me at the conclusion of business with the stationmaster."

Monty jerked at the drape from across the window, and growled, "You wish me to simply drop you off…in front of the station…"

"Yes."

"I see." Abrigaun looked thoroughly beaten.

I turned to rudely poke him in the shoulder, snapping, "Oh, and do not think to drop by the suite and await my return, as I have requested Emanuel Gadreau admit no visitors until I return!"

The man's jaw was beginning to drop. "I am not to…to speak to… er…de'Chagny's men?"

"I do not need my patient suffering further injury brought on by the singular affect you have upon him. And indeed, can you tell me why that is so? I seem to remember the very day we brought him out of Paris, you and he had a disagreement while we were still at the convent…" I gave Abrigaun what I hoped passed for a suspicious glare.

It was at this moment we reached the train station, or more specifically, the carriageway passing beneath the covered entry. I moved to open the door, unwilling to await either Abrigaun or the driver to do so. I needed to escape before I either began laughing hysterically, and died of mortification.

Abrigaun, however, grabbed my arm, and his voice shaking with suppressed emotion, snapped, "I am going to the stationmaster's office… Mademoiselle Butler! Surely you cannot expect me to…to cool my heels at the hotel while this man you visit alone! Why, you have no maid with you! How would this look?"

Oh, my…I had underestimated the gentleman Monty Abrigaun truly was. Even after all the shenanigans I'd just pulled, he was worried for my welfare?

My chest was growing tighter by the moment with…horror…of what I was doing. Monty Abrigaun may be a philandering beast and no more than average husband, but he was a gentleman nonetheless.

I forced my eyes to meet his…rolling and wall-eyed within his flushed countenance…and set my hand upon his shoulder. Dropping all pretense, I explained gently, "Abrigaun, I am not a young girl, and I have traveled before without benefit of a maid. Have you so thoroughly forgotten what it is I do? I have certainly made travel arrangements before, traveled alone before, although I will admit I have never traveled outside England, or indeed much outside of East Sussex. But it is, after all, a matter of relativity So, please…go on to the hotel. In fact, you may return to Paris on the next train, because you are certainly not needed here."

I exited the carriage, accepting the driver's hand, leaving Abrigaun to either come or go. I sincerely hoped he would go…

*****

I sighed, unconsciously drawing two pairs of male eyes. Dropping mine to my hands, I avoided the patent accusation that filled Abrigaun's, as well as the acute discomfort in the young secretary's. Unfortunately, this served only elevate Abrigaun's annoyance; he again stopped before the desk guarding access to the inner office, much to the renewed alarm of the occupant.

Leaning forward, he planted his knuckles firmly into the cork pad set in the middle of the desk, glaring at the luckless secretary. His expression was that of a man pushed to the edge, jaw tight and eyes glacial. Seeing the possibility of real violence in Abrigaun's expression; I left my chair to lay a hand upon his arm and murmur, "Monsieur, _pour s'excuser_, I would have a word in private."

A grunt was his only response; his attention remained hard upon the visibly wretched boy. After several moments I grew impatient with Abrigaun's bullying behavior…therefore, I pinched him upon the upper arm covertly...and quite firmly.

As expected, he jerked upright, and retreated a step from the desk. Keeping my expression cool, I met his outraged glare with one of innocent inquiry. "Would it not be a miserable existence, _Monsieur_, to spend one's time making excuses for another's thoughtless behavior?" I spoke loudly enough, with the intent of being heard behind those elegant frosted glass doors.

Abrigaun did not appreciate my cleverness. Scowling, he rubbed vigorously at his arm where I had assaulted him, to finally growl, "This was necessary, Mademoiselle?"

I might have answered him had not at that moment Monsieur Rosseau thrust open the doors to his office, saying, "I am delighted you have brought your solicitor with you, Madame Butler." Gesturing us expansively into his office, I realized that Rosseau was up to no good when he lifted my unresisting, gloved hand and pressed it to his lips, saying "Madame Butler, it is _always_ a pleasure to see you..." His wide grin was warmly unctuous and therefore terribly suspect.

I returned his smile cautiously, saying, "Monsieur Rosseau, you flatter me. And I doubt you would say that had I come alone."

Rosseau's face seemed to switch around, as his expansive smile fell and bushy brows flew upward, his expression now one of aggrieved astonishment. "Mademoiselle Butler, naturally it is difficult when I must deliver disheartening news as I did our last visit. However, this time I can tell you, most happily…" Rosseau's expression again snapped to that of supreme self-satisfaction… "we are sending you on to Chambery, on Saturday at the latest!" He rubbed his hands together gleefully, grinning like a politician.

Appalled, I bolted from the chair, my face hot with immediate rage. "Oh, that is really too bad of you, Monsieur!" I could not stop myself from pushing into the man's space...surprising the grinning troll when I actually shook my fist within an inch of his pointy nose. "I cannot believe you even offer this! Have you no scruples!"

Abrigaun actually grinned, thereby earning a glare from me.

Rosseau's mouth closed with an audible snap. "But…but Madame! A most special effort has been made to accommodate you on the next train going east! What is it you are not now happy with?"

Heatedly I enunciated what should have been intuitively clear to this man; "_I wish to change the itinerary_. I wish to go south; take the cars, all three, _**south**_."

Rosseau's face fell into a most patronizing frame, and casting a quick look at Abrigaun (who was nodding his head, encouraging the fiend) the stationmaster all but crooned, as if to one mentally deficient. "But Italy is not 'south' Madame. It is 'east' and there is no connecting rail between Italy and southern France, at least at this time. We are working on this, naturally, but I would not think that…"

I held up my hand to stop this asinine discourse, declaring "We can leave the railcars in Marseilles at the rail yard there. I understand it is a major port, and water transport is easily obtained. We will continue our travel down the French-Italian coast by ship."

Rosseau was rendered blessedly speechless for several seconds, then dropped his chin to his chest with a grunt. Peering at me through thick brows, he growled, "This will cost you at least as much as it would to continue east. I cannot see how you can ask de'Chagny to foot the bill for this extravagance. Eh, Monsieur Solicitor?"

I was not to be pushed aside for the lawyer, however, and placing my hand upon Abrigaun's satin-collared chest to stay his answer, I again put myself directly before the stationmaster to look him _hard _in the eye.. "Oh, Monsieur, surely you jest. How can you take money for a trip not taken? I have figured the charges, and find that traveling south costs a great deal _less_. Monsieur, would you like me to show you my figures illustrating this? I have the costs from your very own ticket counter…

"Madame Butler! I cannot just stick your cars onto any train heading in whatever direction you request. At this time your cars are on an eastern siding...and it will take a bit of maneuvering to...."

"Monsieur Rosseau! I believe Corbeil-Lyons Rail has been well compensated; more than enough that the small matter of drawing these cars out and switching them to a southern heading is more than covered! Further, I am outraged to think you would merely pass us on to Chambery knowing we will be as stuck _there_ as we are _here_…and competing with dozens of other travelers for inadequate lodgings and provisions besides!"

Rosseau stood, his big mouth agape…but his eyes were knowingly wary. "Madame Butler, you must be mistaken. Why, I have not been given that information, nor would I dream of sending you there if I had. There must be some mistake…some miscommunication…"

"Monsieur, please! I copied this verbatim from your own ticket counter." I pulled out an scrap of paper from the documents in the portfolio and pointing one finger heavenward, I looked at Rosseau and said "This is _verbatim_, Monsieur. '_At present no rail travel past Chambery is possible. Lodging is at a premium in Chambery due to stranded travelers who do not wish to return to Lyon and take alternate routes. Many are sleeping on the floors in the small rail station, and supplies necessary to provide for them are running short…' _Shall I continue?'"

Again Rosseau had nothing to say, but his eyes had suddenly found something of great interest on the wall behind my head; he was no longer smiling.

"Monsieur, I believe I have made my point. I have a gentleman in poor health in my party. The de'Chagny's contracted travel with CLR in good faith. All I ask is that we be treated fairly."

Both of us were standing with arms folded across our chests in the 'I do not budge' position; it made for a poor negotiating ambiance. I waited until Rosseau had taken a deep breath, and then dropped my arms, subtly clasping my hands at waist level... "Monsieur Rosseau, I ask you, most humbly! Tell me what it is you **can** do for me. I need to be moving my patient to Italy as quickly as possible, and that is not accomplished sitting on a siding in your fine rail station."

The man responded to my gentle _disengage_ as expected; allowed to feel magnanimous, he invited me to again sit in the chair beside his desk and wordlessly looked over the large map that took up a great deal of the wall beside us. The route through Southeastern France was well marked as it closely followed the Rhône making its way to the Mediterranean Ocean.

"Madame, I am assuming that you have your travel papers, including the paid billings, yes?"

"Yes, of course, Monsieur. Swiftly I slid the requested papers from the leather portfolio, laying them precisely to the center of his desk blotter.

Sighing heavily, Rosseau settled himself at his desk, and for the next quarter-hour ran numbers down the edge of a piece of ruled paper. Abrigaun crept closer to watch intently; after a minute I had to look away as both men wore similarly avid expressions. It was most comical, and to start giggling might be less than politic.

The Italian National Rail billing quite interested Rosseau, and I have no doubt he put a great deal of thought into the mechanics of scraping a bit of that his way.

Of course, I knew to the ha'penny...or, to the franc, what was paid and to whom. I broke my silence twice to indicate on attendant documents how much was paid to insure we received fresh, filtered drinking water and a block of ice daily, as well as the club and dinner car charges paid for our journey from Cobeil to Turin, Italy.

Rosseau 'hrumped!' and dropped his chin to his chest. "I believe, Madame, you would have found anything paid to the Italian National Rail would not have meant much past the French-Italian border. The Italians are thieves and gougers."

I raised an eyebrow delicately. "Monsieur, then let us concern ourselves only with the good French francs paid to the Corbeil-Lyon Rail for such necessities. You may argue with de'Chagny's lawyer over that which was paid to the Italian National Rail." His expression was narrow, but I kept mine open and innocent.

The man grunted again, and rising, called his secretary into the office. Shuffling through the papers I had given him, Rosseau gave the young man copies of our travel itinerary, customs statements and billings, and told him exactly what I requested. He told the man to have them delivered to my hotel, wherein I gave our room number and requested they be delivered to Emanuel Gadreau, my steward.

Rosseau then wrote a marker in the amount of the Italian National fees, and directed it be sent to the de'Chagny's Banc France account. He informed us our cars would be pulled on Monday next, to be moved to a rail line heading south. "Mademoiselle, that is the soonest I can get a crew to move your cars." He looked at Abrigaun, who had, as requested, remained quiet, allowing me to deal with the Stationmaster. "I have done exactly as requested, Monsieur Solicitor."

Abriguan snapped his chin down, saying, "Oui, exactement, Monsieur!"

Once his secretary had left the room, papers and notes clutched in both hands, I did not stint on my expression of appreciation to Monsieur Rosseau, thanking him effusively. The gentleman turned to me and said, "I will not say it has been a pleasure to meet you, Madame Butler, but it has been instructive. I have never married, for one reason or another. You have confirmed to my satisfaction that it continues to be a wise decision."

With that he again kissed my hand, lead me to his office door and practically shoved me out, an openly amused Abrigaun's upon my heels. As we passed the harried young secretary, busily scribbling upon forms and making notes, Abrigaun gave him a very long look, that nearly made the boy stamp his own hand instead of the form he was aiming for.

"Stop being a bully, Monty. The poor man has enough on his plate." Abrigaun turned to me with a smug grin.


	31. Chapter Thirty

**Chapter Thirty**

Trust is not my strongest suit…in fact, it runs to the threadbare and ill fitting. I don it, nonetheless, as I have chosen to trust Aislyne Butler; I wish, most earnestly, to do so. Should she inform me pigs indeed fly, I will invest in an umbrella.

Thus I take to heart her assurances concerning Monteque Abrigaun's place in her future (none) and her feelings on his presence in Lyon (undesired).

I do not trust _myself_, however, which is why I choose…with Dietre's assistance…to insure I am well away from the hotel upon the lawyer's arrival. We meet instead at dawn at the bottom of the servants' stairs, by the service door at the back of the hotel. From there it is an invigorating walk to the 'Solyanka', a Russian _kafe_ located dockside on the eastern bank of the Rhône.

There I introduce Chanson to the traditional Russian breakfast…or '_zavtrac_'…of cheese pancakes, or _syrniki__,_ deep-fried and drizzled with honey, and yeasty _pirozhki_ stuffed with apple-sausage filling, beside the usual fried eggs, and sweet pickles. We wash this down with strong, black _chai _heavily cut with sugar.

Afterwards we read week-old _Le Figaro, _and current _Le Progrès,_ and argue over the latest activities of Jules Harmand, the French empire-mad civil commissioner-general for the French in East Asia. Having stolen the Vietnamese province of Cochinchina, he is presently in the midst of repeating the caper with the port provinces of Annam and Tonkin, slipping them from the weak grip of the warring local rulers and the Chinese.

Chanson states Harmand is a man of vision and 'great virility' and France should rule the whole of Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos outright. His is a popular opinion, the idea of colonial expansion and economic opportunism shared by many in the _Quai d'Orsay_ (Foreign Ministry) and the French Third Republic.

I disagree, asserting Harmand is but another power-mad fool, and Henri Rivière a homicidal soiopath who has shown reckless disregard for the men he commands. That the _d'Orsay _is apparently willing to burden France with the expensively ruinous task of colonizing a land that has enjoyed little peace even when governed by its own. I argue the Vietnamese people will never accept the French as anything but a hostile occupational force, and remind Chanson that to rule Vietnam, along with the Phillipines, the Carribean, and vast swaths of the African continent would mean the attenuation of our military forces at home. "You look over the past twenty years and tell me we are wise to leave France without a healthy domestic militia! What is to stop Spain, or Prussia from attempting to colonize _France_?"

All around us men wearing the rough clothing of Russian sailors and dockmen lean over their platters of _binchik_ and porrigers of hot _kasha_ as the crazy Frenchmen swig tea and argue politics. I grin fiercely at Chanson, and twiddle my odoriferous cigar, saying, "I am surprised at you, my friend! You should be marching the Mandarin Road, storming _Bac Ninh_ with General Millot, stuffing your pockets with Chinese gold. Yet here you are shepherding a madman and his nanny across Europe."

Obviously, Chanson is not flattered by my description of his present duties, but simply shakes his head at my words. "I am too old to go adventuring, Bouchard. Why, my hand aches the devil from the little tap I gave you yesterday." He rubs his fisted right hand in reflex, but his smile becomes wider and his eyes fill with devilment. "Let the young men seek gold and glory. What I would have is far more pleasant to hold!" His eyes flash to the sturdy form of the lovely young woman who is presently shoving large platters of _kasha_ and _smetana_ before the hunkered men seated several tables away; Chanson's gaze lingers far too long...

One of the Russians seated at the table next to ours growls an expletive and narrowing his eyes, glares venominously at my companion. "_Ego glaza zhadny na Verochka. Vozmozhno ja dolzhen zakryt' ih s moimi kulachkami!_" Translated, that is, "His eyes are greedy upon Verochka. Perhaps I should close them with my fists!"

His three tablemates' chairs scrape across the roughly tiled floor as they turn toward the offending…and oblivious…Dietre.

I snap my fingers at Chanson, and minutely shake my head; we both look to the disgruntled Russian now pushing himself up from his chair, his ham-sized fists at the ready. Chanson immediately begins to rise to the blatant challenge in the man's stance; I stand and set my hand upon Dietre's shoulder, pressing hard to pin him to his seat. Facing the threatening Russian, I raise my other hand, palm forward and smile, saying, "_Mir moj drug. On ne znachit nikakoe neuvazhenie. On tol'ko neobrazovannyj francuz._" (Peace, my friend. He means no disrespect. He is but an uneducated Frenchman.)

For a moment I feel as if I am the world's greatest fool to come between the irate Russian and stiffnecked Chanson; both remain half in-half out of their chairs, glaring at **me**. Finally the Russian retakes his seat, but not without a bit of muttering and chewing. Exhaling deeply, I sit and look to Chanson to find he is narrow-eyed with suspicion. "You speak Russian?"

I nod, "How fortunate for you. Keep your eyes focused here," I rap the tabletop. "Since when do you _**leer**_ at women, Dietre? That is no '_esquina flor_', but a young woman of obvious consequence. Her father, Putin Morozov, owns the _kafe_, and that," I smile and nod agreeably to the black-bearded brobdingnagian who watches us from the next table, "is her brother!"

"But she is but a serving girl…and not even _French_…" sputters my errant friend.

Alarmed, I slap my hand firmly upon his, thereby silencing whatever scatalogical epithet he thinks to use in describing our host's womenfolk. "Perhaps I should add…Russians are utterly unscrupulous when it comes to a fight."

I raise my eyebrow; Dietre's lower thoughtfully. "Someday I will tell you of my travels through Russia, Chanson. This…" I shrug, "would not be the place or time." Sitting back, I reach to my wallet, preparing to pay for six breakfasts, instead of two.

Emanuel Gadreau suddenly appears at my elbow, his face wet with perspiration, breathing as if he has run all the way to find us. His anxiety is infectious, and I immediately assume whatever has Emanuel running across Lyon cannot be salutary. Visions of terrible disaster having befallen Butler seize my imagination; I grab Gadreau and without thought, say, "Mon Dieu! What is wrong? _Has he hurt her_?"

"_Quoi_?" Gadreau's eyes travel between Chanson and me, his expression one of witless confusion.

"Gadreau, ease Bouchard of his anxiety. Tell him you have come to speak to him of Anna…_**not**_ Mademoiselle Butler." The amusement in Chanson's voice belies his sober expression.

Heat blooms across my cheek at my mooncalf reaction; releasing my grip on the little man's shoulders, I drop my hands to my knees. "Why would he wish to speak to me of his sister?"

Even to myself I sound sulky and annoyed!

Chanson feigns interest in a bit of dust on his sleeve, and I vow silently to thank him someday for his friendship …directly after I have bloodied his nose.

"Monsieur Bouchard, I need your help." Emanuel's tone is respectful, and his hands clutch spasmotically at the leather beret that customarily squats, toad-like, upon his large head. "Only you can do this…only you can intercede with the Mademoiselle for myself and my sister." Emanuel looks as if he has eaten one of Morozov's sourest pickles; obviously asking my help does not sit well with him.

Recalling the feel of her nails ripping at my face, I wonder at the nerve it has taken him to do so. However…I am as at fault in the situation as she.

I sang with her…

Gadreau launches into a description of their overnight absence after the contretempts of Tuesday…to which Chanson and I listen in growing amazement.

Expression mournful, Gadreau exclaims, "Anna has no idea of what it means to live on the streets! Always she has had me to help her. I have kept her respectably employed since our mother died…Anna was nine…through my association with the de'Chagny's man of business, Rowley. For so long Anna has been a good girl, working very hard, to become accomplished as housekeeper, cook, and ladies maid. Her last job as maid-of-all-work for Madame Chaffee was won through the excellent recommendations she received from former employers. But now….now!"

Gadreau shakes his head, his gaze falls upon his hat, to say, "It is as if Anna has lost her mind…forgotten who she is…who we are. We were raised in the theatre district of Paris; our mother was a dresser for the women who worked in Le Divan Japonais or L'Elysée on Rue de Martyrs in Montmartre. Maman was very talented with her needle, yet, we merely survived because her clientelle were no better at paying their bills than the _haut ton_. Too many times Maman went without her daily meal so that Anna and I would have ours…"

Gadreau turns away at this point. I glance at Chanson to find he, too is without a clue as to where the man is going with his tale.

After a swipe at his face with his handkerchief, Gadreau continues. "Anna has forgotten what awaits us in Paris if we are sent home in disgrace! I will surely lose my place with de'Chagny, and she will have no recommendation at all! We would end up on the streets…homeless. So…I needed to remind her…show her. I took her to the Quai Rambaud…in the Perrache District."

Shocked, I unconciously lean forward in my chair nearly into the man's face, exclaiming, "What? No! Emanuel…you took Anna…you both went there…alone?"

Emanual glares angrily, growling, "I am well able to take care of my sister! No one molested us…no one!"

At a small grunt of warning from Chanson, I sit back, out of the angry man's space, and motion to Chanson to let it go. "I am sorry, Emanual…I never meant to imply you could not. But…_**Rambaud**_? That is no place to take a woman, especially your sister! I would not go there! Why…it is an immoral cesspool…full of criminals and perversions of every stripe…"

Gadreau slams his fist upon the table, effectively silencing me…and most of the men in the _kafe_ for that matter. Voice gruff, Emanual states, "It is exactly in such a place Anna and I were raised…where our mother lived and worked for dance girls and prostitutes. I remember well the 'pretty ladies' who visited our apartment. As well as the danger that prowled outside our door for the foolish and unwary."

Glaring fiercely he looks between Chanson and I, as if waiting for an ill word, then sighs and turns to walk away.

I tap his shoulder…carefully. "Emanual, I will speak to Mademoiselle Butler on Anna's behalf."

As if suddenly remembering his place, he bows and murmurs, "I thank you, Monsieur Bouchard."

"And I will assume this means Anna has suffered a change of heart and will no longer feel I am worthy of her attentions?"

Grimly, Emanual looks me in the eye. "Of this you may be quite sure, Monsieur." Again Gadreau bows, and leaves without another word.

I sit at the table for a moment lost in the revelations of the past few minutes.

Was it not just two days ago Gadreau was threatening me with a pistol? I watch the small man until he has negotiated the crowded room and gained the exit, wondering at the capricious nature of a woman's libido.

Jerking his chin at Gadreau's departed form, Chanson mutters, "I hope Anna realizes what a good man her brother is."

I can only agree. I then remind Dietre to behave, and stand to politely call Verochka Morozov to our table, wherein I inform her I will also be paying for our 'good friends' at the table next to us. Stacking the requisite franc notes into her hands, I then bow and wish her, and our neighbors "_Dobrye utro_." Chanson remains silent, his eyes locked upon his boots while paying his respects.

Yuri Morozov's expression is friendly; he has seen my face and seems to find it unremarkable, if not terribly pretty. "_Nauch'te vashemu cheloveku pravil'nym obrazam prezhde chem vy snova prinosite ego zdes'"_. (Teach your man proper manners before you again bring him here.)

Setting my hat upon my head, I grin, saying, "_Soglasheno! On budet pobit i takim obrazom obrazovanno. _Dasvidania_, gospodin_!" (Agreed! He will be beaten and thereby well educated. Good day, sir!)

If Dietre Chanson wishes to know what I have said that sets the Russians behind us guffawing loudly, he never asks.

*****************

"The fault is mine…mine! How could I have not known the danger in this?"

I looked at Abrigaun, who was presently leaned theatrically against the far side of the fiacre, his head wrapped within one arm. Montague Abrigaun's dramatic displays were getting on my nerves.

"Please, _please_ do not go on like this, Monty. I have every confidence I am in no danger, lest you include that of being bitten by fleas in strange beds." I laughed outright, knowing I was being insufferably crass.

"You make fun, Mademoiselle! You have no idea…none! And I! I have done this…to you!" His face was red, and his eyes becoming suspiciously glassy. For a moment he teetered betwixt ire and angst…

The idea of Montague weeping was more than I could stomach. Twisting to face him upon the bench I shoved his nearest shoulder and uttered an expletive best left _sans dictum_. Monty turned, his vaporous fit stalled, to stare at me wide-eyed.

Grabbing his perfectly arranged neckscarf within my fist, I pulled him from where he languished against the carriage wall, and declared…quite forcefully…, "No, Abrigaun you have not! I accepted this assignment, as this is EXACTLY what I do. This assignment is no different from any other, and much more pleasant than most!"

I released his scarf, wherein he immediately sought to return it to some semblance of order, if not style. "_Non_…you do not understand. You cannot…"

"Do you imply I lack the intellect to comprehend the situation, or do I merely lack the **entire truth concerning my patient**?" Huffing with frustration, I shoved my backside decisively into the bench.

Abrigaun stuffed his scarf back within his collar, and leaning toward me, snapped, "_Non_, I do not think you lacking in intelligence, Mademoiselle!" At that he stalled, mouth open, and it was no trick to see he was equivocating …working on further prevarication…

"But…?" I snapped.

"But…it is…I cannot tell you." Sighing heavily, Monty rolled his eyes, saying, "I am not able to tell you. There is client confidentiality involved…"

"I understand confidentiality quite well, Abrigaun." I shot him one derisive glare. "I am well aware you and the de'Chagny's have been less than candid with me concerning our Monsieur Bouchard. Bouchard himself implied this at the convent."

Monty's expression closed, even as he asked, "What exactly did he say?"

"It matters not what he said, Abrigaun, because at this point, I really do not care who or what he was. He is my patient, my responsibility, and until Christine de'Chagny _personally_ releases me from this assignment, he shall remain thus."

Abrigaun's face was unreadable…but his eyes were not. I could practically hear the gears engage within his head. "When you say, 'personally' do you mean…"

"_**I mean**_ she must stand before me and say, 'Aislyne Butler, you are hereby released from your vow to care for my beloved Maestro as best you can until such time he no longer needs that care.'" I turned to look out the window, unwilling to show Abrigaun how strongly the idea of Bouchard _no longer needing my care_ affected me.

Voice arch, Abrigaun said, "Surely you do not expect the Vicomtess de'Chagny to personally…"

Nothing looked familiar outside the window of the fiacre, and in fact, the sun was in the wrong place for us to be _returning_ to Le Corbusier. Yanking back the window shade…I had fiercely commandeered the entry side of the carriage for the return trip…I looked upon an area of Lyon totally unlike that of the old city where we surely should have been by this time.

My only thought was that Abrigaun had decided to do by force what he could not accomplish by guile. "Turn this carriage about, Abrigaun! We are going in the wrong direction."

Casually he waved his hand at me, saying, "I thought to show you Fort Chabert…the grounds are quite amazing. It is scheduled to be demolished soon, and…"

Reaching into the holster at my waist, I pulled forth the Sheffield and sighted it upon Abrigaun's chest. The fiacre gave me little room to actually point it beyond my hip, but my intent was patent.

Abrigaun's face turned stark white. "Mademoiselle! Please!"

Grimly I repeated, "Turn us about, Monty. Please…do as I ask."

There was a growing pressure in my chest, a buzzing in my ears; it took several seconds to realize _**I was frightened**_**!** Nonetheless, I kept my gaze…and my pistol…both steady upon Abrigaun, praying he was as loath to be shot, as I was to shoot him.

Several seconds passed before Abrigaun grimaced, and pounded upon the transom. "_Le Corbusier, _**_s'il vous plait_****." After a moment, the carriage slowed and turned; the driver's voice was clearly audible, cursing at pedestrians. It certainly appeared we were near a military encampment, as men in uniform seemed to be walking everywhere.**

**"Can you not put the…the gun away now, Mademoiselle?" The pistol pointed at his top vest button was clearly making Abrigaun nervous. **

**"No, I cannot, Monsieur Abrigaun." There was a definite quiver in my voice…and he heard it, too. **

**A hint of color returned to Monty's face, and he visibly relaxed against the back of the bench, although his attention was still very much on the pistol in my hand. "I was merely taking the 'scenic route'. Is that not what you agreed we would do, Mademoiselle? Put the gun away, Aislyne, and let us forget all this unpleasantness. A misunderstanding between ****_good friends_****…" **

**I found it necessary to grit my teeth to keep from speaking harshly; 'good friends', indeed! Leaning to better see what was ahead on the road, I remained focused upon the smiling man across from me, praying he would do nothing foolish that would force my hand…or call my bluff. So it was we sat in silence until the carriage wheels bumped off the Pont de la Guillotière', and we were moving abreast of the Place de Bellecour. **

**"Stop the carriage, Monty." **

**I had regained my composure, only to suffer a spike of panic when Abrigaun assumed a faintly mulish expression, and crossed his arms upon his chest. "This I will not do. You are behaving quite foolish, **_ma chère_**. I would know why." **

**I chewed my lip for a moment, mulling whether to give him the truth or not, then stated, "I do not trust you, Monsieur Abrigaun, and question your intentions." I glared at the infernal man, wishing I knew exactly what his intent had been. **

**With great caution, Monty raised one hand . "Rest assured, Mademoiselle, my wish paramount is to avoid gunfire anywhere in the general direction of myself." His grin was cocky, but a trifle stiff at the edges. **

**"Then you will remain firmly in your seat, and your hands will stay exactly as they are. As a rule, I do not ever pull my weapon unless I intend to use it." **

**Moving the pistol to my left hand, I pounded my fist into the wall behind us once, and shouted, "****_A_**_rrête! _**_A_**_rrête!"_ No doubt, this was rude and grammatically incorrect, but Monty was offering no help. It did the job, however, as the driver cursed volubly and the fiacre stopped.

I again carefully changed hands with the pistol, my eyes never leaving Abrigaun. Reaching blindly beside me , I twisted the latch to the door and thrust it open. Whilst watched with growing amazement by my _former_ 'good friend' and the driver, I carefully eased sideways from the carriage.

"Mademoiselle Butler, have you ever actually shot anyone?"

Abrigaun remained unmoving within the carriage, but his expression was no longer as cheerfully complaisant.

"Not without sufficient provocation, Monsieur Abrigaun." I had never shot anyone, ever, but I judged it not the time to share this revelation.

"Would you have shot me, Mademoiselle?"

I caught the curious expression of the driver standing at his post on the back perch of the fiacre, content to merely watch the madwoman with the pistol, aimed upon the remaining passenger. At Monty's inquiry, the driver raised his brows and pursed his lips.

"Should I shoot you, Abrigaun?"

"I think not, _ma chère_. We will laugh most heartily over this incident one day, dear Aislyne, I promise you." I looked at Monty, still relaxed upon the bench, appearing quite earnest and in no way a threat to a woman with or without pistol.

I nodded agreeably, saying, "I do hope so, Monty, I do. Just…today, I find nothing humorous in being carried off by an amorous Frenchman."

"You will not reconsider…I will even allow you to have the fiacre if you prefer. I have no problem walking back to the hotel."

I stepped back and closed the fiacre door gently. "No, thank you. It is a lovely day for a long stroll." I waved the driver on, and watched as Abrigaun's fiacre disappeared toward the old city. Slipping the Sheffield into its holster at my waist, I shook down my skirts and jacket, and began the walk back to the hotel.

****

Once I had crossed the bridge to Vieux Lyon, I found myself in a market district of several blocks. The streets were full of people, including clusters of young ladies enjoying the fickle spring weather to visit the emporiums and mantua-makers. An older woman walking alone in such an area was in no way remarkable, and thus I decided to visit a bookshop where I found a book by Mark Twain, and a book of poetry by William Blake…both in English. I then visited an 'India shop' which sold exotic miscellany from Asia, Africa and China. Nose twitching at the myriad scents that filled the shop, not all of which were pleasant, I browsed among the leather goods, crude pottery, and chip-wood baskets. Most of the goods were cheap and poorly made. A display of Chinese puzzle boxes caught my interest and I purchased two.

I found my prize purchase in one of the ladies' Emporiums: a smoothly woven kashmiri shawl in the 'paisley' pattern, of such size and quality the outrageous price I paid for it did not deter me from wanting the beautiful thing. Jewel colors of royal blue, grass green and bright gold made up the design on a field of fiery red, with a rich fringe of gold silk threads. I drew it over my mannish jacket, and immediately felt better despite the morning's conundrums.

Sated of shopping, I had started to Le Corbusier along the wide sidewalk along Rue du Doreene when I was hailed by Chanson from a park across the street. The park was abuzz with men and women dressed in the 'Bohemian' style: slouch hats, ill-fitting clothing in bright, mismatched colours, looking as if they had just left their bed (and no doubt, some had).

Bouchard and Chanson stood beneath a large tree near the street, both appearing as if peacocks surrounded by scruffy chickens in their tidy appearance. I stopped, and watched from across the wide street as Bouchard talked to a particularly untidy violinist who was plying his trade for what coin listeners would drop in his hat. Bouchard kept his body bent to the musician, but his eyes flashed to where I stood across the thoroughfare, and he smiled. I nodded in recognition.

Soon the violin was pressed into Bouchard's hands, and after wasting some time resisting, he tested the strings, and began to play. His eyes again found mine, and instantly I knew…he was playing for_ me._

The beauty of the music Bouchard brought from that humble instrument was indisputable, although I had never heard a violin played in quite that fashion before. By the time he finished many walking the sidewalks had stopped to listen, and several gentlemen who also carried musical instruments had gathered about him. Upon the bow's final flourish across the strings, applause filled the thoroughfare. Standing head above most who now crowded about him, he seemed entirely too still and stiff at first, though his expression looked doggedly genial. I wondered how he was abiding so many touching and pressing close at once…

He turned his head to again look to where I stood waiting, and again I felt the connection between us. Bouchard visibly relaxed, and turning back to his admirers, listened and laughed, bent forward to explain a point, and nodded his head when another spoke. He finally raised his hands in helpless surrender, and speaking in a conspiratorial manner, pointed, two-handed to me. I waved in acknowledgement, and was immediately in receipt of many elegant bows and flourishes from Bouchard's admirers. The gentleman with the violin put his hand on Bouchard's shoulder, talking earnestly, then patted him. They shook hands, and Bouchard and Dietré turned to cross du Doreene and make their way to where I waited.

Dietre' seemed to have acquired yet another suit, this one in medium blue, a thin wool, with a lovely vest and tie in blue-grey figured silk. I noticed it quite particularly, as I had argued this color was neither formal black nor suitable for daytime with Abrigaun. He had laughed at me, and said, "Every gentleman requires a blue suit for daytime wear." It had proved too short for Bouchard at legs, arms and too big everywhere else and we had no tailor available to remake his clothes. It did look nice on Chanson, however.

Bouchard was wearing black. The trousers were slender cut down to his new black leather boots. The coat fell near mid-thigh, well past his trim hips, as current fashion dictated. The coat lapels were narrow and the shoulders fit him smoothly without a wrinkle. His vest was black moiré silk, heavily embroidered in black fleur-de-lis with the wider cutaway silhouette that was currently in fashion, adorned by the gold of a watch chain. The black linen shirt's collar was of modest height, and he wore a thin tie of deep burgundy that matched the rosebud tucked into his lapel. Dressed thus, where before he looked a bit scrawny, nearly lost in some of his clothes, suddenly he was...long-legged, and broad-shouldered. The black trilby tipped rakishly upon his glossy hair sported a modestly curled brim, banded in black silk, with a small iridescent black feather. He looked pale and dangerously handsome...no doubt predicated by the glossy wing of deep russet hair fanning across his right cheek and eye in a most alluring way...

Many women turned to admire the tall, elegant gentleman; I was taken aback by the noble grace with which he negotiated the throng filling the sidewalks. A group of giggling young girls led by an imposing matron filled the walk and he graciously stood aside and touched his hat with a gentle smile. Three young boys raced between he and Chanson; one careened off Bouchard and was quickly set to rights and patted on the head. Two older women turned upon passing him to look again at his back. The fall of hair into his face frequently blew back in the light breeze, revealing his face completely, but not once did I see him flinch, nor did anyone react.

I was also amazed to note his left eye was unmarked; no ring of bruising discolored his cheek and eye at all!

Realizing I was staring at Bouchard; I dropped my eyes and fussed with my reticule. Strangely enough every time I looked up Bouchard was focused intently upon me.

I grew self-consciousness, too aware of myself. Suddenly, the shawl did nothing to alleviate my conviction I looked the total quiz. My face became hot and my tongue knotted tightly about itself. I was feeling a fool by the time he stopped before me.

Smiling warmly, he bowed, saying, "Mademoiselle Butler, I am quite surprised to see you!" His eyes went from my face to my boots and back, and again the warm look; "These bright colours make your face... luminescent! You should wear such more often. They suit you particularly." Taking my unresisting hand in his, he raised it to his lips.

"T…Thank you, Monsieur. I fell in love with this shawl and had to have it. I…I am afraid I have spent too much of my pin money today…we may well be living on tea and toast by the time we arrive in Livorno." I wondered why I was blushing…

"Bah, this is no cause to worry! A true Frenchman lives for days on the smile of a pretty woman!" Bouchard delivered this in his melodramatic style: hand upon his chest and lopsided smile, my hand still held warmly in his.

"And **that**, my dear sir, is what my brothers would call a 'bouncer'. But nicely delivered."

Pulling my arm through his, Bouchard plucked my packages from my hand and pressed them upon an already burdened Chanson. Steering me on course for the hotel, he said, "Obviously, your brothers are not French, Mademoiselle!"


	32. Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty-One

I was immediately shown the magic of his 'disappearing' black eye. It seems that Anna has both powder and tinted crème, and Bouchard the talent to use these as suitable camouflage for his contusion. It was a trick suitable for a court magician; so well matched to his skin I would not have noticed unless given good light and a reason to look.

When handed a Chinese puzzle box, he had feigned total bewilderment, then acted as though he would attempt to crack the thing open with his teeth. But then, in a blur of moves so swiftly executed I could not catch them, he handed it back to me, the top slid open.

As I admired Bouchard's skill and explored the box, Chanson scoffed, saying, "It cannot be that difficult!" I tugged my packages from his hands, and handed him the other box.

Bouchard frowned at my packages. "You will give those to me, Butler."

I promptly moved them to my opposite side, farther from his reach, and staunchly demurred, saying, "No, because you will merely hand them back to Dietré, and I prefer he solve the puzzle. I am sure **he **will then be kind enough to show it to me."

"Bah! You will figure it out easily enough." My string-tied books and wrapped parcel of oddments were deftly plucked from beneath my arm _from behind_; Bouchard tucked them under his opposite arm. My expression of mock outrage was returned in kind. We both laughed.

Oh, why was the day suddenly so perfect?

"And how was your trip to the station master's this morning? And why have you chosen to walk back?" His expression was deceivingly benign, but I knew better. There was the slightest edge to his smile, and tension in his voice.

With a spike of alarm, I focused upon the sidewalk, afraid to even look at Bouchard and thus reveal too much. "The visit was productive. Our cars are now scheduled for removal to the proper siding on Monday. I assume we will leave Lyon soon thereafter, heading south."

"Ah. South." He seemed to be waiting for me to say more, and I was as aware of his eyes upon the side of my face as I was…the sun. The perfect day…

"I will assume your friend Monty did nothing untoward this morning."

Nodding, I had to then look at him. I wished to be as honest as he would allow me. "An accurate assumption, Bouchard. It was my idea to abandon both Monty and the fiacre and walk back to the hotel."

After a moment's study, Bouchard relented, saying, "I can easily see you doing that, Mademoiselle Butler." There was no edge to his smile this time, and I relaxed gratefully. He captured my free hand and pulled it through his arm. We walked thus in serene accord, listening as Chanson muttered and cursed softly, struggling with the puzzle box.

There was, thankfully, no sign of Abrigaun when we reached Le Corbusier. Nor did he intrude upon us while we enjoyed our midday meal, quite ably served by a humble and carefully solicitous Anna. Her brother hovered in the background, never quite meeting my eye at my initial look of inquiry.

Bouchard moved to the piano directly, and I made my excuses, retiring to my room, the need to pull off my low boots having become imperative.

While fishing through my basket for slippers I ran upon a familiar fat envelope, stuffed there just this morning after I had made my bed. Looking at Louise's package, I again felt a sense of…unease. And why should I feel this at my friend's obvious eagerness to impart a packet-full of news?

Holding it in my hands, I sat and listened to the sweet music emanating from outside my door.

Bouchard was once again running through the notes, humming along in counterpoint…no doubt writing the lyrics. You had to admire the man's industry, as well as the beautiful music he brought out of thin air.

Deciding to rest instead of read, I shoved Louise's packet back into the basket's depths, and stretched out upon the bed. I drifted off to the sound of magic.

***

Having penned my recent purchases into my account book, I mentally grimaced at the sad state of my depleted personal funds. I had kept de'Chagny money strictly separate, using mine to pay for my personal needs, and those few things I desired, such as today's purchases of the books and shawl. However, I had not figured on being stalled in Lyon for a week. I was brooding on the fact I might have to borrow against my expected wages…something that did not sit well at all.

I looked out the open door to the piano…no longer inhabited by Bouchard. Sunlight washed through the large bay windows in the sitting room and floating dust motes glowed against the dark expanse of the piano's glossy lid. It would be so easy to just close the account book and put it all far from my mind. Would anyone else sit about worrying over a few ha'pennies when gainfully employed for the next year for the thrilling sum of thirty thousand pounds?

A niggling thought…accompanied by the heretofore silent inner chorus…

I was deeply engrossed in such thoughts when the sound of humming, a deep thrilling sound, invaded my inner sanctum, and I could not help my smile in response. Closing the account book, I sat quietly and listened, eyes upon the desktop.

After a moment, he stopped humming, and sang softly in French, something desperately emotional and vivid. His voice had a throbbing quality today, and almost my emotions rioted at the splendor and power of Bouchard's voice. Did he honestly have no idea of what his singing would do to the listener?

_Le ciel bleu sur nous peut s'effondrer  
Et la Terre peut bien s'écrouler  
Peut m'importe si tu m'aimes  
Je me fous du monde entier_

Tant que l'amour inondera mes matins  
Tant que mon corps frémira sous tes mains  
Peut m'importent les problèmes  
Mon amour puisque tu m'aimes

J'irais jusqu'au bout du monde  
Je me ferais teindre en blonde  
Si tu me le demandais

J'irais décrocher la Lune  
J'irais voler la fortune  
Si tu me le demandais

Je renierais ma patrie  
Je renierais mes amis  
Si tu me le demandais

On peut bien rire de moi  
Je ferais n'importe quoi  
Si tu me le demandais  
  
I twisted about on the chair to acknowledge his song, and found him standing just outside my door. Upon my nod of recognition, he walked slowly into my room, and I could not but watch his lips as each glorious note was shaped by those noble forms and poured forth, as near perfect as any of God's own creations. I realized I was staring; self-conscious, I turned back to the desk and again closed my eyes, reveling in the song to its inevitable end.

_Et si un jour la vie t'arrache à moi  
Si tu meures que tu sois loin de moi  
Peu m'importe si tu m'aimes  
Car moi je mourrai aussi_

Et nous aurons pour nous l'éternité  
Dans le bleu de toute l'immensité  
Dans le ciel plus de problèmes  
Mon amour crois-tu qu'on s'aime  
Dieu reunit ceux qui s'aiment!

Bouchard sat down on my bed, behind me. "I sing to you, and yet you do not applaud at my efforts! Madame, I am…disappointed. Perhaps you would rather something Italian…"

I laughed, and closing my eyes, leaned back in the chair. "Monsieur, I know not a word of Italian. Oh, except "_Bacilo_". I believe that means…."

"I know very well what it means, Madame. Be careful when you use it, Butler. Italian men are impulsive creatures…you may well get your kiss!"

I heard him open one of the books I had bought that day.

"Ah…I will certainly remember that." Eyes still closed, I listened to him page through the book. "Jerrod, I believe I know what you should do in Italy. You must take up opera, become a lead baritone, and sing deeply romantic masculine parts. You are a natural and the women of the European continent would soon be at your feet, begging for your attentions."

His silence stretched long enough to become unnerving. Had I offended him? Apprehensively I turned halfway to see why he was silent, only to find him reading William Blake, a half-grin on his face.

"Do you read this drivel? Mademoiselle, why would anybody want to see a deformed freak play the romantic male lead. It would be a travesty..."

I turned back to the desk, unhappy to hear him describe himself in such fashion. "You are now going to tell me the male leads for most opera houses are visions of male perfection? Oh, Bouchard, there is a very good reason the orchestra pit is between the stage and the first row of seats!"

I was gratified with his chuckle, and again leaned back and closed my eyes. "Bouchard, you are pleasing to the eye, as far too many ladies will agree. You were the center of a great deal of feminine attention this morning. I am surprised we did not need to scrape the women off like barnacles when we reached the hotel."

Bouchard chuckled again, saying, "Mademoiselle, you have an imagination."

"No, Monsieur, I have eyes in my head. 'Tis' fact, and I will continue to tell you such until you accept it as so. Oh, and William Blake surely does not write 'drivel'. The book is very popular in England..."

Bouchard grunted, then added, "Very well, I will pursue a career on the stage, Mademoiselle, and you may be my booking and press agent. But you may not write poetry if this be your style."

Voice pitched lugubriously, he began to read...

_"'Love seeketh not itself to please,  
Nor for itself hath any care.  
But for another gives its ease,  
And builds a heaven in hell's despair.'_

So sung a little clod of clay,  
Trodden with the cattle's feet,  
But a pebble of the brook  
Warbled out these metres meet:

'Love seeketh only Self to please,  
To bind another to its delight,  
Joys in another's loss of ease,  
And builds a hell in heaven's despite.'

"Lovely, uplifting prose, indeed. However, now I wish to know if we might take the horses out for a ride. I am very eager for fresh air and your company."

I rose and took the book from his hand, shooing him off my bed. "Please ask Chanson if he is interested in coming along, if you will. Hopefully there will be a more spirited beast in the stables for him today."

I closed the door behind him, to change into proper riding dress, but first flipped to a page near the middle of William Blake's 'Songs of Innocence and Experience'.

_The Angel  
'I dreamt a dream! What can it mean?  
And that I was a maiden Queen  
Guarded by an Angel mild:  
Witless woe was ne'er beguiled!_

And I wept both night and day,  
And he wiped my tears away;  
And I wept both day and night,  
And hid from him my heart's delight.

So he took his wings, and fled;  
Then the morn blushed rosy red.  
I dried my tears, and armed my fears  
With ten thousand shields and spears.

Soon my Angel came again;  
I was armed, he came in vain;  
For the time of youth was fled,  
And grey hairs were on my head.

It came to me that Christine referred to Bouchard as her 'Angel'. I closed the book and changed into my newest riding habit.

********************

I am enjoying many sore muscles, and a few spots on my anatomy are rubbed a bit from Tuesday's contact with the saddle. I was able to procure a tin of soothing balm this morning from an apothecary a few doors down from the clothiers' along the 'Republique'. I also indulged in some creative dressing this afternoon to better pad my bony carcass. However, the way Butler is feeding me, I will no doubt need to take up a regimen of exercise to keep from becoming fat. That would be a novel experience for me.

I do **not** ask Dietré to accompany us.

Today I will begin to woo my mademoiselle, to start the gentle persuasion that can only bring us both what we so obviously desire. I have given this much thought; untouched and inexperienced we are, but reckless we are not. Who better to lead me from this state of questionable grace than Aislyne Butler, my companion, the one person whom I can trust will not berate me for my lack of expertise in the art of physical love.

I also hope to tease from her the contents of Christine's letter.

Deciding to tackle the news from Christine first, I begin with careful conversational footwork. I quickly realize that subtlety in leading her down this thorny path is utterly wasted on Mademoiselle Butler. When I take the conversation to related topics…such as the music I am writing, the piano Christine sent, Aislyne's ability to play said piano, Aislyne's singing voice, and so on...she goes off on a tangent that is entirely opposite of the direction for which I intend.

I finally admit defeat when she insists we push both horses into a gentle trot, making further conversation somewhat more difficult. "Gentle" is subjective; what my shoulders, thighs and backside experience does not fall anywhere near the cognomen. John is a large horse, and although his trot is collected, he is a powerful animal…and I am dreadfully out of shape.

Thankfully, after a bit we drop back to the walk, and Butler turns to me. "Jerrod, I have a question, and I ask only that you answer it honestly."

"I will do my best, Mademoiselle."

"You are attempting to inveigle the contents of Christine's letter from me. Please assure me this is not the only reason you wished to ride!"

"Madame, this 'question' sounds suspiciously like an accusation." We exchange arch looks, but she is smiling.

I take the time to admire the riding outfit she is wearing…obviously her summer weight habit, as it is a light, polished fabric in a lovely spring green, with a cleverly divided skirt, and jacket that follows her narrow figure. Her hat is of matching fabric, a soft, brimless concoction that merely serves to gather her thick hair beneath, with a cockade of lemon yellow and turquoise blue feathers at the front.

I also consider her question in that time, mentally thumbing through the possible responses. "Mademoiselle, I enjoy riding, I trust that is obvious. I will always enjoy the company of a lovely woman. However…I did wish to see if you would be so kind as to share news of Christine. Only that which you feel would not be a violation of Christine's privacy, of course." I bring John to a halt.

She stops Aminta alongside and favors me with one long eloquent sigh. "Dear Bouchard…could you not have left off at the absurd "lovely woman'?" She is smiling, but I feel the long standing hurt behind those words.

"Madame, you do yourself little justice. I have excellent vision and I mean what I say… Mademoiselle Aislyne, you are a beautiful woman." I realize that I do indeed mean it.

I receive one straight, long look from a pair of very cynical green eyes.

"Thank you very much, Monsieur. Having dispensed with the obligatory, let us now address the germane…Christine's letter, if I can properly think after such flattery…" She fans herself furiously with one hand.

"Mademoiselle, you have my full attention."

Mademoiselle Butler clears her throat, and sends another arch look my way, "Monsieur, I had every intention of sharing Christine's news with you, but I so enjoyed spiking your efforts at coaxing me into the subject."

She grins impishly, and I ask myself, 'When did Butler acquire dimples?'

"But now, let me relieve your mind." She tells me of Christine and Raoul's child, Aaron Phillipe, and how Christine is recovering. She tells me far more about Christine than I ever hoped to hear. I feel great peace; the child and Christine are both well. A knot somewhere deep in my heart eases…

"There is something further that she wrote, just for you." And Aislyne recites Christine's message to me: that her affection for her Maestro is unchanged, that I am in her prayers nightly. And most importantly, "_Tell him I have never said 'goodbye', but instead, 'until we meet again.' He will understand._" It is this last that shatters my equanimity.

I am forgiven.

Butler rides on so that I might have a moment to collect myself. Considering all she has seen me through, it seems almost churlish to expect her to do so.

I catch Aislyne up and we talk desultorily of travel arrangements.

She quizzes me for anything I might know of Italy, and for nearly an hour, I wax nostalgic on the beauty that is Italy: Milan, Genoa, Florence and Naples. But it is when I speak of Venice that I become totally involved, for it is in Venice that I may well have lived a far different life, had circumstances been different...

*****  
I loved Venice. It was there that I wrote my first opera while working with a local composer by name of Giambatista Bussotti, eminent conductor for the La Fenice orchestra. It is there I studied voice technique under the great vocal instructor Luigi Piccioli…I was his 'mystery' student who wore a dark mask covering most of the upper portion of my face. I humbly offer that it was the quality of my voice that wooed him past his reluctance to teach a student he would never fully see.

For four years I lived with Master Buontalenti, master mason, engineer, and artist in Venice, learning his craft as well as receiving instruction in every musical expertise I could afford in my 'free' hours. Many were the nights when I practiced violin and piano until my fingers were stiff, and days when the stone and sharp tools left them bleeding and ragged. My days off were spent sketching and painting, working with personal projects in the workshop, and composing and playing the music that filled my imagination.

Working with stone was nothing new for me; Mademoiselle Antoinette (as I knew her then) had secured a job for me within the first year of freeing me of the Gypsy brute who 'owned' me. I began working with her fiancé's crew as the mortar boy, fetching tools, water and carrying the heavy hods of mortar up the ladders and scaffolds. I covered my face with an oversized hood I had fashioned from scrap leather, although I suffered much from the heat, the abrasion of the leather, and a great deal of not-so-gentle ribbing from the other men. I quickly advanced as apprentice mason, building the Opera Populaire by day, living in the dark dank bottom basement of the building by night.

After several months, my artistic talent was noticed, and I gratefully accepted apprenticeship to one of the plaster artists, who was sculpting and casting the human form elements for the interior of the auditorium of the opera house. I worked for Monsieur Mascagni, through the entire project...three years...learning the art of drawing from live models, casting and sculpting the forms of the beautiful women who would surround the auditorium. Upon its completion, he sent me to Venice to study the finer art of sculpting stone with his master. I pursued the study of music also there, auditioning with Bussotti and Piccioli and winning their tutorship on the basis of my abilities.

Buontalenti took me with him several times to Greece, and several of the Mediterranean isles to study classical stonework and architecture. It seemed only natural to be loaned out to his good friend Charles Beulé, to spend my summers in southern Italy studying ancient architecture, even if it only meant I was given a shovel to help dig it out of the packed earth of Cerveteri and Pompeii.

These were, indeed, the finest days of my life. I was learning a craft, working on my vocal skills as well as composing and writing. Although I spent most of my time alone or working with Masters Buontalenti, Bussotti and Piccioli, always I kept nearly all of my face hidden. I do not believe I talked to more than a handful of people the entire time I was in Italy. Flourishing in the gentle climate of the approval given me by the learned men with whom I spent my days, I forgot, for hours at a time, that I was less than human, a deformed freak, an abomination unto God.

I could not be persuaded, however, to approach a woman under any circumstances. I had no sexual urges whatsoever, preferring instead the finer feelings my music gave me. In that alone, could I find fulfillment.

I left my beautiful city by the sea only because I was given the opportunity to ply my other obsession…magic...in St. Petersburg, Russia, at the top of the European continent. Czar Alexander II requested magicians from across Europe perform at an international fair, and the prize monies offered for the best were sizeable fortunes. Full of the confidence of youth, I thought to return to Venice a rich man, able to set up my own establishment, hang my brass plate as "Architect & Engineer" and support myself in the grand manner, as a gentleman despite my ignoble appearance.

I did extremely well, causing no small stir with my extreme performances of legerdemain and slight of hand…but never collected a ruble's worth of my prize money. I was kidnapped instead, and spirited away to Persia, by the man who would become my only friend, and remain so even after my escape and return to Paris. For five long years, however, I was the 'guest' of the Shah of Persia, where I became the royal court magician, royal architect…and the Sultana Khanum's pet assassin.

Within days of my arrival to the Shah's court, I was forcibly reminded of the lessons my mother had so carefully instilled in my mind and heart: I was an unlovable freak...no woman could stand to touch me, much less love me. I was born of evil; I was destined to live a brutal and lonely life. I believe it was then that the malevolent being that had always existed within burst free of all natural restraint; the demon inside who relished the taking of life. I lost what little humanity I had been blessed with over the preceding four years by the masters and teachers of Venice.

*****  
Naturally, I relate a considerably cleansed version of this to Aislyne. I do not tell her of living in the basement of the Populaire, nor of serving as an assassin at the whim of the Shah's evil mother. I do not edit the horrors of being the living gargoyle and court magician in Persia, but soften it with tales of my years in Venice...

Telling Aislyne of my beautiful Venice brings bittersweet memories, and I become tearful. I stop for a moment, dreadfully affected, patting my pockets for my handkerchief. Butler, ever considerate, looks to her hands upon the reins, allowing me a moment to compose myself.

Thrusting my handkerchief back into my coat pocket, I give her a rueful smile. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle. I have not thought of Venice for a very long time…"

Narrowed eyes search mine, and she says, "And why is that? Obviously Venice is where you heart lies. Why did you never return?"

Indeed. I smile at her, at the determined firming of her lips and the way she is now ready to take us to Venice forthwith. Yes, I can see that marching through her thoughts as clearly as one of Muybridge's chronophotographic moving pictures.

I can not give her anything but the truth. "Because a child needed me in Paris."

The vision of Butler struck speechless is remarkable enough that for a time we ride quietly. I then tell her of the reduced circumstances that Venice now suffers. Since the time of the Austrian occupation earlier in the century, Venice had suffered beneath the iron fist and greedy hands of foreign occupation. The subsequent unification of Italy, which included Venetia, merely put another name to those who dispensed brutality to the Venetian people: the Italian Carabinieri.

It was once my fondest dream to return to Venice when I had inevitably won my fortune, and help lift Europe's most beautiful city up from her knees, back to her former glory…

Butler offers, "Bouchard, surely you see…you must return there."

I laugh at her naiveté. "I have no fortune now, Madame! I returned from Persia a hunted man, with very little beyond the clothes on my back. If I had returned to Venice, I would have been but another beggar in a city of the starving. And now the masters I worked for are gone; very little of the artistic community remained in Venice after its relinquishment to the Italian republic. The city is crumbling into the Adriatic Sea, its canals rank and the beautiful buildings neglected. The city has been raped of all but that which cannot be moved."

"But all that you have told me, that still remains…the beautiful foot bridges, the architectural grace of the palazzos, the Venice Opera house and its excellent orchestra….I cannot believe there is not enough left to entice the rest of Europe. Music and art…is that not what Venice claims for its own? Surely not everything is gone!"

Such zeal and conviction light her face...

I raise my hand, "Listen and I will give you something that cannot be taken away…Italy's music…" She nods enthusiastically, her eyes bright with excitement and expected pleasure. I will do my very best not to disappoint...

My first is offering is "_Il balen del suo sorriso_" from '_Il Trovatore_' by Verdi. It is sung _baritono_. the confession by the Count of Luna of his great love for the noble lady, Leonora.

The vocal style for this aria is grand and ardent; I tend to sing with my hands, and both horses are a bit unsure of the maniac filling the air with noise and movement over their heads.

"_Ardita,… e qual furente amore ed…irritato orgoglio…chiesero a me. _

_Spento il rival,… caduto ogni ostacol sembrava…ai miei desire_

_novello e più possente…ella ne appresta..." _

Aislyne's eyes are alight with rapture...

"_L' altare! Ah, no, non fia d' altri Leonora! _

_Leonora è mia! _

_Il balen… del suo sorriso d' una stella…vince il raggio!_

_Il fungor del suo bel viso novo infonde…in me coraggio!..._

_Ah! I' amor ond' ardo…le favelli in mio favor!_

_Sperda il sole d' un suo sguardo…la tempesta del mio cor_."

"_Qual suono!...oh ciel..."_

Upon my last note…held appropriately despite John's sudden desire to step out a bit livelier…my mademoiselle exclaims foolish pseudo-Italian hyperbole, and stands in her stirrups, applauding wildly. I cannot stop myself from grinning at her silliness, yet I feel a flush of such pleasure in her enthusiasm, that I, too, am grinning idiotically, basking in her approval. The feeling is…priceless.

"Ah, Jerrod, that was so lovely! I must learn Italian!"

"Yes, you must. And I will teach it to you…" And it occurs to me I might have no better moment than this to begin my gentle siege upon my Mademoiselle's maidenly reserve. Immediately, I know the aria to serve as my '_piece d'occasion_'. I halt John and dismount; Aislyne immediately halts her mare, and turns to look at me. She moves to speak…but I hold a finger to my lips…'s_hush_'…

And I begin to sing…

"_Una furtiva lagrima…_

_negli occhi suoi spuntò._

_quelle festose giovani….invidiar sembrò...  
_

…as I walk to where she sits her mare in the middle of the path. Bracketing her trim waist with my hands, I make it plain that I intend to do the gentlemanly thing and 'assist' her from her saddle. Her eyes are wide with surprise and pleasure, never leaving mine. Lying her reins carefully across the mare's neck, she reaches for my waiting arms.

Singing the introductory lines of Nemorino's aria regarding his beloved Adina's tearful eyes takes all my breath control while gently setting Aislyne upon her daintily hunt boot-clad feet. My overtaxed shoulders and back muscles scream in protest. The woman may be unfashionably thin...but she is no featherweight.

"_Che più cercando io vo?_

_Che più cercando io vo…?"_

I pull her into a gentle stroll on my left, our horses following behind. The '_mise en scène_' complete, we walk side by side, and I cautiously slip into my most '_con amore_' voice for the _legato _phrases…

"_M'ama! Sì, m'ama, lo vedo. Lo…ve…do…_

_Un solo istante i palpiti…  
Del suo bel cor sentir!_

_Co' suoi sospir confondere _

_per poco i miei sospir!..."_

Butler gamely struggles with her emotions but cannot deny me…or herself…the implicit longing in Nemorino's song. Her face becomes softer with each line and she succumbs to me completely. She now watches me with a desire '_devoto_' in its intensity; her eyes are huge, her lips parted sweetly. I bring her to a stop, and turn to her, pulling off my right glove, to run my fingers down her soft, sun-kissed cheek.

She presses her cheek into my hand, yet her eyes never leave my face, watching as I pour the melody and my passion out to her. A rush of emotion overwhelms me...I feel my body respond and must shift my posture and consciously relax to overcome it. Am I falling under my own spell?

_"I palpiti, i palpiti sentir,  
confondere i miei coi suoi sospir..."_

Cielo! Si può morir!  
Di più non chiedo, non chiedo.

I reach for her hand, and she delivers it, unlacing it from the reins. My voice deepens, having reached the '_appassionato_' phrases. I remove her glove, and kiss each finger at the joining to the palm as I sing of Nemorino's longing to mingle his sighs with Adina's. My thumb strokes her wrist beneath the cuff of her sleeve and I sing of 'the beats of her heart', and feel the thundering pulse at Aislyne's wrist. I must kiss her there; she gasps and sways to me, as I do toward her, our eyes locked. I nearly stop singing, so lost do I become in the dark places I find there...in her eyes...

Ah, cielo! Si può! Si, può morir!  
Di più non….chiedo, non… chiedo!

At last, the 'coda'! It is difficult to keep my breathing supportive of my voice, whether from lack of strength or my own building passion... I must return my voice to the innocuous choral style, and at the last bars of the song, I slip her hand back into her glove, don mine, and return to her side as I end Nemorino's ode to his love's tearful eyes...

"Si può morire! Si può morir…d'amor."

"_Una furtiva lagrima…_

_negli occhi suoi spuntò."_

Butler stands as if lost in a dream, her eyes on my face. I wrap my fingers about hers, and gently tug her forward to walk along the middle of the path. Whistling a Puccini aria I allow her to collect herself…as am I, assailed by a plethora of heretofore unknown feelings.

After a several minutes, she turns to me, growling, "Why did you do that Bouchard?"

"Now what did I do?" I ask, surprised by her anger.

"Surely you know!" Her eyes narrow and her confusion and frustration are obvious. Briskly removing her hand from my grasp, she stops, wraps her arms about herself, looking everywhere but at me. Her mare seems just as confused, and noses her in inquiry.

I wait and watch, wearing an expression of calm inquiry. She finally turns, and gives me one long, defiant stare. "I refuse to believe that...what I think just happened to me...happened without some... provocation on your part!" She turns to her mare, and tosses the offside rein over the mare's neck, checks the girth, and prepares to mount.

I place one hand lightly on her shoulder. "Mademoiselle, you will be kind enough to tell me what is wrong?" I feel a flush begin across my cheek; she is in a state of emotional arousal, eyes snapping, chin and cheeks glowing, her entire body quivering in reaction. She is magnificent!

"No, noooooo! I refuse to believe that you have no idea, Bouchard!' Butler stares at me wide-eyed for a long moment, and then turns and setting her foot in the stirrup, easily lifts herself into the saddle. She pushes into an immediate trot in a southern heading.

Obviously, we are now to return to the hotel. I quickly mount John, and catch up with a minimum of contact to the saddle.

I keep an eye on Aislyne; she regains her self-possession in short order. I cannot say the same for me, as I am experiencing emotions I have heretofore never experienced. Seduction is a very disturbing and arduous business, apparently. I honestly do not feel I am being unfair or falsely influencing Aislyne, but that I use my voice to woo her, to win the chance to be her lover. Is this not what every man…and woman, for that matter… does? Uses that which they have to win the favors of their desired?

Eventually we subside to a comfortable walk, both horses blowing just a bit. Whether as companionable silence or lost in private thought, we ride without speaking. However, Butler acquires a very queer expression, and she sends quick glances my way. "Bouchard, what did you do differently …the…the second song?"

I cannot help but feel rattled at her question. How can I explain the difference, besides...everything! Naturally, I cannot say that, so I do not look at her when I answer. "Mademoiselle, I merely sing as I feel the music. Sometimes I am carried away by the passion in the song, and I would like to think you feel this also. However, if my voice is not pleasing… repellent...I do apologize. I did not realize you found it disturbing." I lift my chin, the image of wounded sensibility.

"I think you must know it is never repellent, sir!" Myriad emotions parade across her expressive face. We again lapse into silence. Aislyne's expression becomes more thoughtful by the minute.

While cataloging my various wounded parts, I nearly miss her low-voiced question. "I assume you have sung thus…with Anna? Do you now expect **me** to throw myself shamelessly upon you…"

The very thought of Aislyne dressed in a whisper of fabric, her naked thighs clasping mine, her lips trailing wet heat across my face…and I groan in helpless reaction, a heavy pulse starting somewhere even with my saddle's pommel. As if the ride was not painful enough! "No, Butler…oh, I do not…"

Aislyne's face blanches, then freezes. I immediately see the mistake I have made…her assumption of my meaning clear upon her face. I reach across to her, saying, "No…no, you do not understand. Aislyne…I do not think…"

She tosses me one hot glare, and her mouth assumes a shaky slant as she snaps at me. "I know **exactly** what you think, Jerrod Bouchard. You think me too stuffy to possess any but the most tepid and sterile of feelings!"

I hate it when someone thinks to speak for me, especially when my own words are repeated out of context. I feel my face distort to a snarl as the heat of sudden anger flushes my cheek. "Thank you, but I can tell you quite well what I am thinking, and it is…"

She loudly interrupts, her chin high, "**However**, you will not. You will be either insufferably polite, or unspeakably rude, Bouchard, and I am well acquainted with both. Please, just forget the subject. Perhaps we should return to the hotel."

Chin clamped to her chest, teeth visibly clenched, she boots the mare into a trot, who responds by crow-hopping for several strides, ears pinned, no doubt shocked with such treatment from her doting mistress.

Looking at Butler's board-straight back, I realize that she is now in a defensive rage. How well I know the feeling…although I am usually seeking a neck to squeeze at that point.

I push John into a canter to catch her. Upon doing so, I again ask Aislyne to calm down, although I am beginning to feel a tad resentful; I am suffering mightily from the woes of the flesh. I ask that we complete our return at a soft, easy walk; my backside demands it.

Butler, however, ignores me and proceeds to squeeze a canter from the mare…

I grab her mare's noseband and we all come to a fast, uncomfortable stop. Butler is livid, so angry now she is dashing tears from her face, nearly screaming, "Let her go, how DARE you,** let me go!**"

"We have not finished our discussion, and I would appreciate it if you would at least allow me to speak FOR MYSELF!" My voice is strident and harsh, and I am breathing…robustly, which means I am whistling like a tea kettle, which only serves to anger me further.

Her eyebrows rise, "You honestly believe I need clarification? I know how you see me...I need no reminder! Let me see…'dry, skinny spinster', 'dull and...oh!...'stuffy', 'old maid' and…." She is hiccupping wildly, and her mare is wall-eyed and beginning to jig.

"No, no…I have **never** referred to you as 'dull', Madame, and I believe the words 'old maid' were **yours**, not mine…" I rip one of the reins from her grip to insure she cannot take off. Dismounting, I step to the mare's side. Butler reads my intent an instant too late and I jerk her from her mare's back, swinging her about and pushing her back against her mare's side. Whipping out my handkerchief, I press it into her hand, and grip her by the shoulders. We stand scowling at each other as she wipes her face. I am thinking of spanking her, perhaps making her walk home. Something demeaning and…

She steps forward, leans into me and puts her lips against mine. Her hands drag mine down from her shoulders to her sides, pressing them there. She then traps my face between her warm palms, coaxing my head to tilt, her fingers tangling in my hair, and begins moving her lips, a soft caressing, drawing her bottom lip across mine. Gently I am drawn into the kiss, as I mimic her and suddenly our lips are moving in a clutching reciprocal ecstasy, that fires my body like a match to raw whisky.

Releasing my face, Aislyne moves her hands to my back, strongly pulling me in against her, her mouth warm and soft on mine, her body pressing against me.

I know I am again making noise when I breathe, and am feeling too awkward to hold her, afraid that I will crush her with the violence of my feelings. Still, I lean into her, and give her everything I feel, and my Aislyne seems inclined to do the same. I am overcome with the taste and warmth of her mouth and the feel of her body against mine from chest to knees. I open my eyes to the sight of her so close, golden-tipped lashes fanned upon her cheek, the skin over her eye opalescent, and the heady scent of Aislyne...roses and horse and woman and the warmth rising from our bodies.

Inevitably, I must stop the kiss, as I can feel the frightening hitch in Aislyne's breathing that means she is having an attack. There is also the dreadful cat purr that is issuing from the right side of my nose.

Still Aislyne leans against me, pulling me close, and I am so envious of her control, as I must consciously keep my hands away from her, else I would crush her against me…or shake her until her ears rang! Her breathing slows. Gently then, Aislyne pulls away, and as her hands leave my back they come to caress my face, then drop, and I am left utterly bereft.

Aislyne steps back and turns away, her eyes reddened from tears; I finally am calm enough I can touch her without violence, and I turn her to me again to look into those eyes, to see…what? Her cheeks flush and suddenly she is again crying, covers her face with her hands and sways in place.

I cannot begin to guess what my face must be doing. I feel…surprised beyond words, awed by the sensation of her kiss...

She exclaims tearfully past her hands, "Oh, Jerrod, I am sorry. I have never done that... You cannot imagine…."

And I feel cheated; why is she now feeling regret?

I reach up and jerk her hands away. "No, I cannot. Why would you kiss me, Aislyne? Do I remind you of your beloved Monty Abrigaun?" I stare into her brimming eyes, and cannot fathom the sudden pained humor and tenderness I see there, or the irrational jealousy that has planted such a heavy foot upon my chest.

Aislyne scrubs fiercely at her face with my hanky, then snaps, "You are cruel, Jerrod. You know better than to think that." She pulls the rein from my nerveless hand, turning sideways in a subtle attempt to move me away. "I am sorry I kissed you, but 'tis done. There will be no more kisses, Jerrod Bouchard, I promise."

"Madame Butler, I would far rather you made no such promise. I cannot think of anyone I would rather…kiss me." I twist her about gently to face me, and remind her, "Have I not asked you before?"

Her eyes are downcast and demure, everything she is genuinely _not_, and I smile at the thought, which makes her face freeze again. "Perhaps we need to return to the hotel, Monsieur."

I am 'Monsieur', now. I am not going to force myself on her, but I will admit, I am disappointed. I drop my hands from her shoulders, as she has now become busy rebuilding her defenses and rearming herself against whatever compelled her to kiss me. Gentleman that I am, I offer her my cupped hands for her boot, see her settled in her saddle, and I return to my stalwart John.

We return to the hotel in absolute silence, both of us lost in our respective internal hells of insecurity. Aislyne appears lost in thought, and too many times I look to her, to find her eyes on me. She does not smile, and I do believe she is suffering from far more demons than I have ever done.

I am the last person who can offer her reassurance.

Upon reaching our suite, Aislyne asks Anna to arrange dinner, and then disappears into her room for the remainder of the evening.

I sit at the piano and wonder what Pandora's Box I have just opened…

**************

Songs!

"Hymne A L'Amour" - 'Closer' by Josh Groban

by Edith Gassion & Geoff Parsons & Marguerite Monnot

"_Il balen del suo sorriso_" is from Verdi's Opera 'Il Trovatore'  
Liao Changyong sings this SO well…

.com/watch?v=oZrbH_xH4iQ

'_Una firtiva lagrima_' from the Opera Buffo 'Elisir d'Amore' by Donzetti.

You can find a video of Placido Domingo singing it .com/watch?v=JFTYlUtMgY8

**************

Well, was it worth waiting for? I just needed to become 'unemployed' in order to have more time for writing, I guess. :::Sigh:::

I'm already putting together the next several chapters. Barring reemployment, ha ha.


	33. Chapter Thirty Two

**I know I owe an apology for the delay, but I must tell you: I am enjoying my unemployed state. I am finally doing ALL those things I never had time to do to my house. ** **I have faux painted my bedroom walls in a soft butter yellow 'wash' and stenciled 3' below the newly painted cathedral ceiling in a motif of leaves in a deep olive green. I am all-over stenciling my entire bath area to coordinate with the bedroom, and painting the nasty aqua laminate countertop in a faux green stone. ****I have cleaned every bit of carpet in the house, thrown out years of unnecessary 'stuff'. I've hung pictures, have finally started my daughters' baby books (they are 24 and 18!). ** **I am in the processing of fixing, repairing and renewing all of the plumbing, electrical and structural in my house. No…not hiring anyone, I'm doing it MYSELF. My husband just watches and is amused at his ditzy wife with her paintbrushes, power tools, plumbers putty and Duct tape! ** **But I'm still writing! Here is 2 chapters up! ****Chapter Thirty-Two**

East of Brighton there are sea cliffs of white chalk, very like those between Dover and France, a bit less in height though still impressive. I rode Lyric there frequently, following the path that wound atop the cliffs, worn down by centuries of sheep and wildlife. Parts of the cliffs were unstable, however, and during the spring rain and thaw, great slabs of the chalky material and house-sized chunks of rock would break off to land on the shallow wrack-covered beaches, or in the heavy waters below.

There were signs along the coastline that warned of the danger, yet in all my time in Brighton I never heard of anyone actually going off the edge. Despite this fact, missing children or drunks were generally sought there.

Having heard of the sea cliffs from a Brighton native, I visited them sometime in my first year of residence, and found it a fine place to ride to when the heat of summer was otherwise inescapable. During the warmest afternoons the breeze off the sea was always cool; no one visited there much during the summer so I had the stretch of cliffs to myself. I would hobble Lyric after pulling her tack, allowing her to graze. I then set off to hike along the long cliff walk, enjoying the cleansing feel of the salty air, and the sight of the sea as it swept south, through the Straits betwixt England and France.

I was mindful of the danger of getting too close to the cliff edge for a time, keeping at least five long strides between that and my feet.

One day, however, something large broke the choppy waves off the coast, sending up a huge geyser of spray, then moved in towards the cliffs. Wishing to keep it in sight I invaded the safety zone…just a few steps at first, but my incurable inquisitiveness put me closer and closer to the edge. I finally stopped when my feet were but a modest stride from the edge, my caution finally overriding my urge to tempt fate.

On subsequent visits, however, I spent more and more time past the point of reasonable prudence, until there came that day when I looked over to see the rocks and roiling black water _immediately below_…my toes aligned with the cliff's raw, broken edge. From that day, no matter how vehement my self-castigation against such lunacy, at least once during every visit, I would find my boot toes to the edge, enjoying what had to be the strongest emotional intoxication I had ever experienced. It was terror and exhilaration and a high, keen anticipation of the deadly unknown…to realize that Death could be that close, that I could be experiencing the violent shattering of my body upon the sharp rocks below in the next second, or the next, or the next…

I could think of no better analogy for the effect Jerrod Bouchard had upon my emotions than that walk along the edge of the cliffs of Brighton. To be anywhere near him now pushed me beyond the point of prudent and rational thought…and attracted me with the same fearful exhilaration.

Returning to Le Corbusier was accomplished in utter silence…a fact I found more upsetting than anything Jerrod Bouchard might have said to me. He was, in fact, remarkably composed, offering ms assistance in dismounting, as well as giving the stable boy several coins to insure both horses were properly rubbed down and given fresh water and hay.

Any argument I may have made concerning my _personal_ sense of responsibility for my mare's care was given silent attention…and then ignored completely by both Bouchard and the boy. In fact, the man kept my arm firmly pulled through his, and towed me resolutely to the hotel's back entrance past the usual small gathering of hostlers and_flâneur__s_. I chose not to fight him about it…I had provided enough entertainment for the back-hotel habitués lately.

We took the servant stairs to the suite…I insisted…and having successfully extricated my arm from within his, I fled up the stairs at a faster than lady-like pace. Once in the suite, I turned toward my room, only to be pulled about by Bouchard, his expression solemn. "Mademoiselle Butler…" Despite an expression of supreme self-possession, his eyes were intense upon my face, studying…searching…

I could not fully return his gaze, so great was my embarrassment at my behavior in the past hours. I instead I focused upon his neckcloth…only to find my eyes straying to his mouth…where I was reminded of the kiss. Ashamed, I closed my eyes and murmured, "Monsieur?"

We stood thus for several seconds, wherein I became aware of the absolute silence of the room. Unnatural, considering there were four other people present…

Gently, I disengaged my arm. Staring fixedly at the wall above the heads of Chanson and Xavier, I breathlessly informed the area that I would be retiring to my room due to a debilitating headache.

"_D__îner__, __je chercherai__, Mademoiselle! Je __dois t'apporter un plateau, oui_?" Anna's tone was gentle in her offer to immediately fetch dinner and offer to bring me a tray; smiling, I looked to her…which was unfortunate. Avid fascination lit her lovely features…mirroring that of her brother and Xavier. Chanson was kind enough to keep his eyes upon the silent man who still stood at the suite doors.

"_Pas, merci_, Anna. Goodnight." I fled to my room.

Retiring early with a 'headache' did nothing for my angst, nor did it bring any relief for my feeling of impending disaster. A fitful night of hugging my pillow and swearing I would not cry did, however, finally provide the splitting headache.

I wallowed in the guilt I was feeling over the Gadreaus…the situation with Abrigaun. That ill-advised kiss… I was tormented by Jerrod's unwillingness to put his arms about me, to even touch me during the kiss. Obsessed, I fretted over the still, impassive expression he wore thereafter.

How could I have been such an impetuous fool?

After hours of tossing about in my bed, enjoying but moments of real sleep, I surrendered to the inevitable. Lighting the bedside lamp, I dragged myself from beneath the bedclothes, pulled on my sock-slippers, and draped a light wrap about my shoulders. I knelt beside the bed and dragging the medical case from beneath it, struggled with the hasp which was, most predictably, stuck. Knocking about the top, side and directly upon the cursed hasp did not coerce it to release. Exasperated, I stood and shoved the box with my foot…wherein the hasp flipped up.

My watch pin showed the hour as just a few minutes before 5 a.m. With two small packets of Myrtle's Headache Powders in my hand, I crept from my room into the near dark of the suite's common room. The single lamp above the sideboard shed little light, and it was necessary to pat about in order to find the neatly stacked glasses next to the large glass ewer.

Dumping the powders into the glass of water, I stirred with my finger, and gulped the bitter concoction down, praying for quick release from the band or iron that presently encircled my head above my brow. It was upon refilling the glass that I was reminded of another morning when I had left my bed early. A frisson of remembered alarm shuddered down my spine...I had nearly died that morning, the nail marks were still visible on my shoulders. The frightening Angel of Death had not been seen again but in my dreams.

How long ago it seemed, and somehow it felt Bouchard was in no way related to that enraged, mindless creature. Indeed… these days poor Bouchard probably felt he was a rabbit in close quarters with she-wolves.

I needed to talk with Bouchard...to explain the kiss was the result of feminine foolishness and curiosity. I would again apologize for my impulsiveness, and assure him that I would henceforth give his person every respect. I could not bear the thought that his beautiful voice and gentlemanly virtue made him easy prey for yet another predatory woman ...or, indeed, that he might think of me so!

Hopefully, I could repair the insult I had inflicted with my forward behavior and we could go on as before...at which thought I could only groan aloud at the irrational and unrealistic idea that things could ever return to 'as before'.

Nothing would ever be the same…I was forever changed. I had come face to face with the awful reality of the woman I really was.

Perhaps I _had_ kissed Jerrod Bouchard intending only to douse the fire of battle in his eyes…this was as plausible as any excuse I could offer. Whatever my intent, I had instead found myself amidst a firestorm of emotion beyond my power to control. Never could I have imagined how singular it would be to kiss Bouchard; if Abrigaun's kiss was a few pleasant notes, Bouchard's had been a symphony in full cry! I was frightened by my reaction to his cautiously amenable response; instantly I had become a creature of instinct, driven by the warmth and want at the center of my being. I now recalled I had released his face to wrap him in my arms and pull him against me, wanting to feel him, know all of him, with all of me!

The memory of that one action did nothing for my self respect. Who but I knew better his aversion to being physically mauled in such fashion?

Try as I might, I could not lay blame for my wonton behavior upon the beauty and emotive power of his voice. The thrill of his lips pressed to my palm, the warmth of his fingertips upon my face played again in my thoughts. I know there had been nothing I would have denied him in those moments, and nothing I could have done to break the spell, had I wished to do so. Yet his actions had been nothing but theatric window-dressing, a part of his artistic performance.

My kissing Bouchard had sprung from nothing so innocent!

I'd merely had no idea of how extraordinary doing so would prove to be! And now…Heaven help me…I desired to know that feeling again, to be helplessly at the mercy of such passion…far beyond all self-control.

The glass in my shaking hand clattered upon the silver tray for a moment when I sought to set it upon the sideboard. I stood holding my aching head in hands that shook with the guilty memory of his body against mine.

Kissing Bouchard had been folly, but worse, it had been an assault upon his person by the one who should have been least likely to do so! Had I forgotten his reaction to Anna's attempt to seduce him four days past? Was there not some similarity in that and his reaction to having me dragging myself across him, like some Cheapside doxy? Remembering his still, shuttered face…his hands held stiffly at his sides…

Oh, Dear God. I was everything Granny Muldoon had warned…

Breathing deeply, I collected my frantic wits and forced the screaming inner voices back behind their wall. It was apparent that in little more than a week I had lost my mind, and most certainly all of the professional distance and detachment to be expected between this man and his nurse companion.

The conclusion was clear: if not truly in love, I was absolutely neck-deep in every other affiant condition. Since I had no prior experience with any of the emotions that now assailed my wheeling sensibilities, I was incapable of deciding what to do about it. I stood, hands fisted upon the back of the nearest chair, allowing my pounding heart and painful breathing to ease.

_Granny Muldoon's voice cackled in my ear, wheezing, "A woman without virtue suffers true poverty!" _Hissing in annoyance, I cast her behind the wall with the demon chorus… I was swiftly losing the control I had labored a lifetime to perfect…and I did not like it.

I wandered about the dark suite, stopping once at Bouchard's room…thinking only to hear him breathing, or 'purring' in perfect sleep. No sound from within was discernable, the occupant obviously enjoying his rest untroubled by thoughts of his nanny's aggressive attentions. Having circled the suite once, I finally considered the looming shadow of the piano, dominating the small area before the bow windows. Before I had given it thought, the bench was pulled from beneath the keyboard, and I sat facing the stretch of keys. I rested my fingers upon them…thinking it would be the height of rudeness to consider actually playing…

Foot pressing firmly upon the una corda pedal, I allowed my fingers to find a quiet melody, the resulting notes colorless shades of the those heard within my imagination. Lamentive…heartbreaking…

…_I felt him there in the room._

Setting my elbows before the music rail, I massaged my aching head. "Well, at least we have not surprised each other to the point of violence this time, Bouchard."

"Yes, Mademoiselle. Laudable progress! You have not been up this early in many days." His voice was rough, as if just roused from sleep.

"There are things on my mind, Monsieur and much to do today. I hope I have not waked you from good sleep with my restless wanderings. Or are you an early riser, whose peace I have thoroughly destroyed?"

I heard a snort and chuckle, and the sound of his body moving upon the cushions of the longer divan, which faced opposite from where I sat at the piano. "I am just as likely to have been awake all night, Madame. 'No rest for the wicked', as it says in the Bible." He punctuated this announcement with a jaw-cracking yawn.

A sleepless night...another tweak upon my conscience.

"I am very sorry, my dear Bouchard. I, too had a terrible night. And I suppose 'wicked' fits me very well."

"I was not speaking of you, dear lady." He chuckled.

I nodded, then realized any gesture was lost in the dark of the room. Pressing the una corda pedal, I began to play, the melody mournful as well as muted. I felt Bouchard's hand upon my shoulder. "Why do you mute? Are you afraid you might awaken Anna?"

I stopped playing. "I was being considerate."

"Play the ballad here," and Bouchard placed my left hand a half-octave lower. "And play_ 'pianissimo', _naturally."

"But I…"

"Play!" He whispered this directly at my ear; I shivered at the warmth of his breath. I began again, sure of nothing but my desire to do as he asked. Bouchard began singing…

"_Alas, my love, you do me wrong,  
To cast me off discourteously.  
For I have loved you well and long,  
Delighting in your company._

_"Greensleeves was all my joy  
Greensleeves was my delight,  
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,  
And who but my lady greensleeves._

"I have been ready at your hand,  
To grant whatever you would crave,  
I have both wagered life and land,  
Your love and goodwill for to have.

"Greensleeves was all my joy  
Greensleeves was my delight,  
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,  
And who but my lady greensleeves.

"Well, I will pray to God on high,  
that thou my constancy mayst see.  
For I am still thy lover true.  
Come once again and love me.

"_Greensleeves was all my joy  
Greensleeves was my delight.  
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,  
and who but my lady greensleeves!"_

Not once did his voice rise above that of quiet conversation; nonetheless, its perfection was as potent as had he projected fully. I felt every word resonate within my own breast, and ruefully allowed the tears to slip down my cheeks unmolested as I played a careful accompaniment. As the piano's last quiet note faded, I felt Bouchard's hand squeeze then leave my shoulder, and he moved to the settee beside the windows, reaching to turn up the gas. Scrubbing briskly at my wet cheeks, I gave belated thought to my general state of dress and disarray…and quickly shoved my arms into the wrapper I'd laid across my shoulders, settling for modesty over grace. I was keenly aware Bouchard watched as I struggled to pull the cursed thing fully across my chest, covered only by my thin shift.

Bouchard turned fully to face me, and holding out his arms in a coquettish fashion, said, "I hope you are not scandalized at my appearance, Madame. I have no pretty banyan to cover my dishabille." Indeed, he looked as if he had spent the night tossing and turning, his shirt creased and collar open. Running his hand over his chin, he 'tut tut'ed at the unmistakable susurrus of whiskers.

Irritated by his rather pointed performance, I growled, "You are fine, Bouchard. I cannot help I am…perhaps…overly modest."

He moved back to my side, then tapped upon my shoulder to move me over on the piano bench. "I find your modesty refreshing, Mademoiselle Butler."

Cheeks violently flushing, I turned my attention back to the piano, wondering if he meant to be ironic. His voice cut gently through the rising catcalls from within. "Aislyne…I mean nothing but to make you smile…" He sat upon the bench beside me.

I struck a chord…too loudly…and closed my eyes, mentally blocking the man from inside my head. "Am I such glum company then?"

"It has been a trying time for you…as well." I could not help but look at him. He wore the lop-sided smile, but something else, intense and still, was there…in his eyes.

"Aislyne, _ma amie_…" Turning upon the bench, Bouchard pulled my hands from the keyboard.

Frightened of my reaction to his voice, I snapped, "Please, I beg you address me as 'Miss Butler' This familiarity is…is dangerous!" I ventured to effect my hands' release from his warm grip, but he continued to pull me around until we were close…much too close. Bending his head to mine, he silently demanded I look up at him. Unhappily, I did so.

"I wish you to address me as 'Jerrod'. This jinni we cannot stuff back into his bottle, no matter how hard you wish it, Aislyne. We are friends, remember?"

Gritting my teeth, I stated somewhat strongly, "Friends or no, I should address you as 'Monsieur Bouchard'. Besides, why ever would I call you 'Jerrod' when it is not your real name?" Chin lifted, I firmly pulled my hands free, and crossed my arms to belay any further handholding.

The man beside me grinned wickedly. "Neither is 'Monsieur Bouchard'!"

For a long moment our eyes locked, and the words, '_What, then is your name_?' whispered within my thoughts.

Swallowing the question, I dropped both hands and my eyes to the keyboard, playing the first few bars of one of Bouchard's compositions, remembered from an earlier spying mission into one of my purloined sketchbooks. Bouchard began playing the same deceptively simple melody, starting exactly where I had ceased. After a few minutes he stopped, appearing lost in thought while gently playing a triplet of keys up and down the top octaves.

Abruptly he stated, "You have decided to not send the Gadreaus back to Paris, correct?"

I could not help but stare at him, blinking and frowning at the idea he was, again following my thoughts. "Why do you say that? I am still thinking…"

"Then stop thinking, Madame. Anna has come to her senses, and realizes what a poor choice of paramour I would be. She is recovered from whatever 'spell' she was under. I believe she will prove quite unremarkable in conduct from now on."

"Oh? You seem very confident of her, where not a day ago you were convinced I meant to run you mad by keeping her with us." I purposely turned back to the piano, wishing to keep my suspicious thoughts hidden.

What had changed between Bouchard and Anna Gadreau? I realized she was behaving in a manner more to her station, and certainly more to my liking. However, I did not believe Bouchard was the type to forgive in such a sea-change fashion! At least, not without some mitigating conditions…

"I believe that it may be my own actions that…encouraged her behavior."

"I believe we discussed this very thing…_very_ early on." I could not help but send a look of vindicated probity his way.

Bouchard scowled, saying, "Yes. But I had no idea Anna was Emanuel's _sister_ at the time."

I snorted rather inelegantly, saying, "This then is your excuse…you thought she was married?"

Bouchard sighed loudly, and sent his fingers skipping tunefully about the keyboard, whilst I stood firmly upon the mute pedal. Finally, Bouchard stilled his hands, and after a long moment of contemplation, spoke. "I am asking you, as a favor to me, to give Anna Gadreau this chance. I feel I have some…responsibility for the events transpiring on our last day on the train cars."

_Miss_ Butler, I know why you kissed me."

Surprised at his words, I could only stutter, "In…Indeed?"

Gravely he nodded, and said, "It was my singing…to be accurate, the way I sang only to _you_. I knew what I was doing. The end result was…gratifying, if perhaps a bit more than I expected…but certainly not surprising." This descriptive was accompanied by a flash of teeth within a wolfish grin, soon gone as he sighed quite heavily and bowed his head. "What I failed to rightfully consider were your feelings…your…sensibilities. I took advantage of you and for that I apologize."

At first I could not grasp his meaning…although the incident of which he referred was clear. I then realized he was apologizing for _compelling me to kiss him_! I laughed…barked really, rather gracelessly through my nose. The idea was ludicrous… "You cannot be serious! Surely you do not mean to tell me you…you…"

"I realize the idea is hard to accept. But you, yourself wondered if my singing would cause you to 'throw yourself upon me' as Anna had. And, of course, as perceptive as always, you were absolutely correct. That was the expected result, and I…"

Growing more indignant at each contemptible word, I shook my head, then snapped from between clenched teeth, "No, it is patently impossible! You cannot compel me to…to act out of character by singing to me! I am not some weak-witted female to be mesmerized by a song, sir!"

"I did not mean to suggest you were, Madame!" Bouchard's penitent expression was fading quickly before my righteous annoyance. Holding up one hand to stay my wrath, he added, "You do admit to feeling somewhat amorously inclined toward me while I sang '_Una firtiva lagrima_', the aria' by Donzetti. After all, you mentioned it yourself, immediately after."

There was no way I would now admit to the heated notions and emotions that had overwhelmed my native good sense! I merely stared at him, repressively silent.

Bouchard placed one hand to the back of his neck and rubbed, stymied by my refusal to acknowledge his silly notion. His voice that of one talking to an unreasonable person, he said, "Aislyne, I do not merely wax vainglorious; _**this is my confession**_! You were…compelled to behave as you did. And I…I shamefully admit…practically forced you to do so."

And as I sat there attempting to burn holes through the side of the man's head, (he having found the piano keyboard of great interest), De'Chagny's assertion of Bouchard's ability to 'enslave' Christine by singing to her popped into mind. I gave it fair consideration, I swear, but the idea…the very idea!…I could be so easily influenced by a man's voice was abhorrent.

Albeit…_this man's voice_…

Bouchard's expression was again one of annoyed and thwarted remorse, and it suddenly struck me why he would make such a outrageous claim. The idea he would confess to such faradiddle in order to save me from the humiliation of thinking myself an immoral woman…well, it quite evaporated my anger. For a moment I sat looking at the man's hands as they darted soundlessly about the keyboard, playing a melody only he could hear.

I laid my hand over one of Bouchard's, halting both. He turned, expression impassive, no doubt wondering at my changeable demeanor.

"No, Bouchard, I will tell you why I kissed you, my dear friend. The truth is…I kissed you because I...because I was curious." I felt my cheeks grow warm, and was wishing he was not so warily watching me.

Bouchard chuckled, flashing a rather lupine grin. "Curious? And how long had you suffered under this _curious_ urge to kiss me? Do I owe Abrigaun a debt of gratitude?"

A flare of temper served well as the antidote to withering shame; my high color was now fueled by growing pique. Continuing past set teeth, I snapped, "Furthermore, I thought it a fine way to stop you from acting on any thoughts of retaliation!"

"Ahhhh." Bouchard smiled ruefully. "So it was a diversion now? Very clever, Madame. But did you not think that I might have taken the opportunity to forget I must act the gentleman?" Suddenly Bouchard seemed a great deal bigger and closer than before.

I found it very hard to pull my eyes from his, so that I might fuss unnecessarily with the front of my wrapper. We were now entering territory where I was not a qualified combatant. Nonetheless, I manfully continued, "Truthfully, I had no such fears, Bouchard. Now…please, let us not analyze this to the point where we give too much importance to the experience. It was…_**only a kiss**_. I am terribly sorry…"

Bouchard grimaced… Speaking barely above a murmur, he asked, "Aislyne, why do you feel you need apologize? You apologized yesterday, mere moments after and...I am wondering why you did so." His voice tightened and deepened with each word.

I lay my hand upon his, wishing to soothe the suspicion I felt lurking behind his question. "I apologized because you seemed...stunned, numb...almost horrified by my actions. I realized you do not easily accept touch from others, Bouchard. I was…overcome by the moment and my devilish curiosity. No, I cannot defend my behavior, nor will I allow you to take blame, though I thank you for your attempt to do so."

"I see." There was a curious twist to Bouchard's lips…but he seemed to find my explanation reasonable. "So, you do not believe it was my singing?"

I pushed to lay the unfortunate affair to rest. "Please, Bouchard, if we are _indeed_ friends, I beg you let us now forget the entire episode, _**please**_. It was, after all, **just** a kiss."

Absolute silence for several heartbeats. "If that is your wish, my lady."

Near breathless with both regret and relief, I smiled as if blissfully happy indeed. "Yes, that is my most fervent desire."

"Aislyne, it is forgotten." He appeared sincere, yet suddenly preoccupied, almost as though he was no longer giving full attention to our conversation. No doubt he was now reassured there would be no further assaults by his plain paid companion.

Bouchard began to play again, his fingers moving nimbly across the keyboard. I rose from the piano, murmuring excuses, and fled to my room.

***  
I visited the horses immediately after breakfast, my pockets containing a dozen stale molasses cookies and two apples, all provided by the horse-loving cook in the massive hotel kitchen. Aminta made it clear she had no interest in the fruit and mugged me shamelessly for 'just one more cookie'. Ever the gentleman, John took bites whilst I held each apple, and was endearingly careful about my fingers.

I supplied scratches as requested and checked feet all around. The stable lad and I spoke at length about Aminta's novel habit of flattening her ears despite a perfectly biddable disposition. He related that he had thought the barn cat a goner…Aminta had initially greeted the friendly beast with both ears _and_ neck flattened. However, she and 'Boots' were now cuddled together in the stall most nights. The cat greeted me by weaving through my skirts, then Aminta's legs without harm.

I was tempted to saddle Aminta and go for a long wander through the nearby countryside…alone…as if that would serve to dispel the memory of Bouchard's patent low spirits at breakfast. Point in fact, there had been a general air of depression in the suite this morning amongst the Gadreaus, Chanson and Xavier. Try as I might, I could not produce more than the most perfunctory of smiles myself.

However, the Pullmen were to be cleaned today by the housekeeping agency contacted by Mr. Cohen. The boxstall portion of the cargo car needed a thorough cleaning as well, a task I had set for myself. I wanted to see both jobs done, and the cars therefore ready for removal to the necessary siding for the trip south.

At breakfast I asked Thom Xavier to help, and he accepted gladly, eager to get away from the monotony of sitting in the public room, or upstairs in the suite with Dietré.

Bouchard seemed content to stay at the hotel, moodily wearing out the piano, with Chanson to keep him company. I did ask Dietré to insure Bouchard got away for at least a walk around the Place' Bellacoure; I could give him no guidance as to how he would accomplish this.

I dressed in my 'work clothes'; heavy brown broadcloth skirt, belted, long-sleeved blue chambray blouse with a menswear-style jacket, and heavy walking boots. I brought a scarf with which to tie up my hair, and heavy leather gloves to protect my hands. I looked the proper farmer's wife.

Thom could be thought to lack in several departments, yet he was overcompensated in obedient brawn, which was exactly what I needed. He was not much for conversation, answering my polite questions or requests in a halting baritone. He would never meet my eyes when I talked to him, but was never hostile, just…diffident to a painful degree. He became my timid, hulking shadow as we visited the nearest livery to order hay, bedding straw and purchase sand and lime, and all but hid behind me when the clerk at the mercantile where we purchased our cleaning tools asked him an innocuous question.

I hired the friendly white pony along with a market cart from the hotel stables to truck supplies to the rail siding, and Thom was invaluable in helping me unload the bags of lime, sand and tools and get them onto the car. We worked through the forenoon and afternoon in the airless car, scraping the old bedding out into the cart, sanding the floor clean, digging out mice nests and brooming down the car walls. We then spread lime and swept it in and around many times, being careful not to make a lime dust storm in the process. The fouled lime was swept into the cart, and the collected waste was hauled via the cart to a local farmer's fallow field to be used to fertilize and sweeten his grass for next year. The sun was far past its zenith when the hay and straw arrived by dray. Together we loaded the hay and baled straw in the storage space in front of the stall gate, and called it a day.

Just past midday, several women descended upon the Pullman cars carrying implements for serious cleaning. I heard singing and much laughter through the afternoon whilst they turned our two cattle cars back into rolling palaces. The weather was warm and the sky clear, without a breath of a breeze, but all of our cars enjoyed the shade of massive elms arched overhead in the afternoon. Many times Xavier and I would be catching our breath in the cool shade when the cleaning crew broke for tea. Xavier was the object of much female attention, and although I could not see the attraction, his bovine good looks, sweet expression, and shy nature was a hit. By the time we left, he had been petted and cosseted to the point of grinning contentment. I actually kept him working outside cleaning the railcar windows, so he could enjoy the attention. I wondered if Xavier had been raised amongst lots of girls...he was remarkably comfortable with them.

The woman in charge, a large boned individual by name of Sophie Cocteau, reported to me that all of the water tanks would be dosed with five gallons of vinegar each prior to her crew leaving that evening. She advised that the day the train is readied for travel, I should ask one of the 'tankers'...the men who were responsible for filling our water tanks...to drain the tanks and run water through each twice. "The third time will be your drinking water, and will be as sweet as honey." The 'plumbing' water would be best left with the vinegar in it. "Keeps down the smell and flushes cleaner." I learn something every day...

She also seemed very interested in what Xavier and I had done with the boxstall car. I told her that my father often shipped bloodstock across Ireland and England by rail, and cleaning the cars was usually done by my brothers. I learned by watching, and eventually I was 'allowed' to help. I explained the process, and she was interested enough to write it all down.

"You never know where you can add another service, make another dollar, yes? Lots of private stock cars come here and cleaning them could be a nice addition to our services."

I warned her it was backbreaking work, and she laughed at me. "If you need help, you call me. I have a couple women who could out-work yon little man," pointing to the sturdy Xavier, who was suffering through a back and shoulder rub given by two giggling and cooing brunettes.

******  
Satisfied our cars were ready for return to service, we closed and locked them, making sure the note to the as-yet-unheard-from guardsmen was visible. We waved adieu to Madame Cocteau and her band of lovelies, they turning east and we heading our pony west. Xavier was grinning ear-to-ear as we were serenaded by a dozen feminine voices singing his name and blowing him kisses. I laughed like a loon at his eupeptic expression of total bliss.

We reached the hotel with the sun dallying beside Fourviere Hill, firing the red tile rooftops of the houses built into its north side. I returned the pony and cart to the stables, checked on our own 'ponies', and thanked Xavier with much folding money. He pocketed it with sincere appreciation, but said "It was payment enough just to be with all the ladies, Mademoiselle."

Laughing, I assured him, "They certainly fell in love with you, Xavier! You are a magnet for pretty girls. No wonder Dietré likes having you around." He ducked his head, and grinned, and I nearly reached out and ruffled his curly head. A big, friendly bull calf. I wondered how the Italian girls would take to our Xavier?

Taking the servant stairs from the back of the hotel, I entered my room from the hallway door, not the suite entrance, preferring to spare everyone the sight of me: hair afrizz, dirt and lime dust covered, smelling of sweat and horse manure. I was thoroughly exhausted, but eager to soak away my sore muscles. Then, God willing, I would sleep soundly.

I wrapped my naked self in a soon-to-be-laundered robe, and entered the bath attached to my room. Giving both taps a twist, I filled the tub, pouring in rose oil, stacking towels, hair soap, olive oil, and manicure tools on a wooden table set nearby. When the water was high enough to guarantee a good, deep soak, I dropped my robe to the floor, and placed my tired, achy body under until the tip of my nose, chin, and kneecaps were all that broke the surface.


	34. Chapter Thirty Three

I apologize for the slip-up in posting this. I posted, and then went back in to check for the inevitable line errors. Imagine my horror when HALF OF THE CHAPTER WAS GONE. It was also missing from my save file on my thumbdrive. It took me an hour to find it. Also, please note that the dividing lines setting out the changes in 'view' are being dropped (again) by FF.

Yup...I'm asking for feedback!

**Chapter Thirty Three**

Most of my day is spent at the piano, ignoring Chanson's request that we 'go for a stroll' or 'visit the Bohemians'. The man is aggravating in his persistence, yet I realize this is all Butler's doing. She thinks I need to get away from the piano and enjoy more fresh air; naturally, I will disagree.

I do not play, however, beyond checking the occasional note sequence. Having retrieved the sketchpad I 'borrowed' from Butler, I draw score lines upon several sheets, and spend the hours carefully setting to paper the first half-dozen lullabies I have written for Christine and her child. I have the lyrics down for the most part, although there are phrases that I cannot yet put to words. I am confident they will come, however. I illustrate the edges with careful drawings of mothers and babies, and the most saccharine collection of baby animals at play.

I admit…I am unable to dismiss entirely the early morning's revelations from my mind. As usual, Madame has set me upon my ear with her discursive rationalizations for the extraordinary…and quite enjoyable…embrace. However, her avowal that curiosity was the driving force for the kiss struck me particularly; Madame Butler has the necessary inquisitive mind, but absolutely bristles with inhibitions that would preclude her taking any such action. Therefore, I am confident my impassioned performance sundered the thorny hedge planted about her baser emotions.

Madame may laugh at the idea, (all the while secretly fuming at the notion **she** could be so easily affected!), but I know how to mesmerize with my voice. I am, and will always be a magician, a master of the art of hypnosis, prestidigitation and illusion. Never before had I thought to use these skills to win a woman's favor; it is Chanson's revelation that initially inspired me to try it with my modest Madame Butler. Do I argue with the results? _Non!_

I am thus inspired to compose a fitting aria to my stubborn Butler, using elements of voice and tonal qualities to express my ardent appreciation for the embrace and kiss. Perhaps at some later time when Anna has retired I will perform it for Aislyne alone.

Presently, there is a matter that quite overshadows all other concerns: Christine's singing, or rather her lack of interest thereof. I refuse to believe she has abandoned it for any reason other than the unhappy associations she now suffers. This is all my doing.

Therefore, as an offering of fatherly affection, I have spent several days composing songs suitable to be sung to her child. I know what she loves, the music that tempts her, and hopefully, she will be compelled to sing, to introduce the beautiful instrument that is her voice to her first child. Each song will also contain elements that will recall for her the joy of her voice.

That is all. I wish only for her to remember what her father considered her greatest gift, which she worked so hard to perfect. I pray she will forget our troubled past and take back that which was ever only hers…**her beautiful voice! **

With all humility, I have given what restitution I can to all who suffered from my insanity on that hellish night a lifetime ago. I totally liquidated all the land, gold and jewels, the investments in businesses and all the cash accounts I held in the city, and all over France. Everything I owned it cost me, and I was on the run the entire time, dealing with middle men and those who knew me only under my many aliases.

I settled a significant sum upon Ubaldo Piangi's long-abandoned wife and five children. Even Carlotta Guidocelli found sufficient funds put in her account to see her through many months until she was able to ensnare a new patron. I provided the majority of the funds necessary to rebuild the Opera Populaire. Within the year, even the lowliest gaffer had his job back if he so desired.

All this I have done to repair the damage to over eight hundred lives.

Yet, in my frenzy to buy redemption, I never considered that Christine might have suffered harm. Immediately engaged to one of the richest families in Europe, soon to wed the premier catch of the Parisian marriage market, her heart's desire would give her all she wanted. She would forever be free of the freak in the basement of the Opera Populaire!

Alas, now I know better. In my self-involvement I never considered what being loved by me had cost her. And all the money, power, and domestic bliss in the world would not give back to her what I had stolen.

It is thus my thoughts have turned whenever I am left in the unmerciful clutches of my own conscience.

I do not remember having to deal with such a thing before I knew the child Christine. In those days it had raised it's voice whenever Erik's desires were counter to the girl's best interests; many were the choices I therefore made that were not what Erik demanded, but what Christine needed. At the time of my deepest obsession with the girl, my head was filled with the screaming arguments between 'what Erik wants' and 'what is best for Christine'.

I offer this as no excuse, but to argue it was not remarkable I behaved like a lunatic. I was pulled in two directions at every moment.

Nonetheless, ten days ago 'Erik' ceased to exist and I no longer hear his name. I quite realize that I 'was' Erik, but I have packed the poor brute away, as much for his good as mine.

Thus I spend the day wandering the suite humming the melodies, or sitting at the piano writing lyrics within the musical scores. It is long past midday when I finally sit at the piano to play and sing the cradle songs, all the while imagining Christine singing them to her new son. I cannot stop the tears that slip down my cheeks, nor do I wish to.

Upon finishing I look up to find Chanson, Anna and Emanuel all staring at me. Anna wears a tremulous smile upon her face.

Disgusted and vaguely embarrassed, I retire to my bath, to soak and think.

**********  
The water was cooling, and I could no longer feel my feet, which had ended up over the end of the tub. I rolled to my side tucking my legs so that everything was underwater, but found this awkward. A deep breath, and I rolled belly down, staying there until my lungs burned for air. I completed the roll, to face up, blindly reaching for the towel I had laid upon the stool beside the tub.

While wiping my eyes, I was amused to see my hands and feet were severely pruned by the long, relaxing soak.

I grabbed my hair soap and massaged it through then piled my hair atop my head into a lathered mass, and began washing my face, neck, breasts and belly with the rose oil soap, enjoying the fragrance and the smooth, slippery feel the lather imparted to the skin on my breasts and tummy, hips and thighs. Mariette had packed two jars of it in my luggage when I was unaware, God bless her!

After submerging to rinse, I again reached for the towel, but instead of finding it thrown carelessly across the stool, it came right to my hand...

Outraged, I flung soapy hair from my face and nearly screamed when Bouchard came into view through the dripping locks. "Damn you, Bouchard! What are you..."

"Aislyne, I need to talk to you." Bouchard was dressed in flannel sleeping trousers and a sleeveless cotton undershirt, baring his white throat, wide shoulders and long, sinewy arms. Usually men are tanned to some extent on their arms and face. Bouchard's flesh was still as white as...well...a new baby's arse, the skin as fine as any young boy's. He had obviously just left his bath, as his hair was wet, spiky, and uncombed.

I sank myself as far beneath the water as I could, my arms across my breasts. I noticed, however, that now the juncture of my thighs was visible, and, making inarticulate noises, groped yet again for the towel and pulled my knees up toward my chin.

Bouchard handed the towel to me...again...with perfect aplomb. "Madame, I have seen naked females before. I helped design and sculpt ninety-two naked women for the Opera Populiare's auditorium and grand foyer, each one lifelike in _**every**_ detail."

"I do not care if you spent your days in harems of naked women; this is MY body, and I..." My voice may have been just a bit strident; I choked on my own invective.

Bouchard face reflected a moment of fond recall. "Nazzier-e-Din, the Shah of Persia, frequently requested I paint his harem favorites nude".

Sidetracked, I stuttered, "T…The…the Shah…? And did you?"

Bouchard slapped his chest, exclaiming, "Hah! Dear lady, I would have had my eyes gouged from my ugly head immediately thereafter. I was no fool!" Leaning forward, my tormentor waved one hand, stating briskly, "I do not have time for that now, Butler! Madame, I need you! I have been patient, to no avail. Perhaps you will remember that I requested your aid just two days past."

I growled "Monsieur Bouchard, I am in my bath. Surely you can see this is not the time…" I readjusted the tiny linen towel over my body, hip to crossed arms. As long as I was willing to fold myself nearly in thirds, it would do, but my knees as well as other intimate areas were easily visible. Besides which, I was getting chilled.

"I cannot imagine a better time, Butler! I will sing to you now, while you relax in your bath!" His eyes slid along my contorted body slowly, and he leaned further forward, eyes narrowed, as if to look closely at some novel deformity.

I threw water at him, driving him back. "I will not be much 'relaxed' if you insist on sitting there…" It suddenly occurred to me what he was doing. "Bouchard you are NOT playing games with me!

"Madame, whatever gave you the idea?" His smile was the essence of virtue and innocence. "Would you like me to help you rinse your lovely hair?"

My furious glare and snarling lips probably spoke louder than anything I could have said.

Rising, Bouchard gave me a wide, lupine smile. He did seem to be in a state, however, as his big hands locked together, busily rubbing. I realized I would be wise to get out of my bath before he took it upon himself to 'assist' me in doing so.

"Bouchard…Monsieur, I will be out to see you presently."

"Am I being dismissed, Aislyne? I could help you dry off…."

"Out, Bouchard!"

"As you wish, my lady." Bouchard bent and after resolutely prying my right hand off my left breast, kissed the knuckles, and replaced it carefully upon the wet, thin towel that covered my obviously chilled breast. His eyes never left my face, nor did mine leave his.

It was several minutes before I could breath normally and my heart achieved a steady, even pace.

My hair hurriedly towel-dried and pinned atop my head, I swathed my body in my most shapeless dressing gown over my long sleeping chemise, and tied it snugly at my waist. I slipped a clean pair of Kavanaugh's heavy wool hunting socks over my feet…they made excellent house slippers, albeit somewhat vivid in color.

The idea that Bouchard had sat there watching whilst I lolled about in the tub like a...a... pig in a mud wallow, was dreadfully disconcerting. The more I thought about what I might have done whilst unaware of watching eyes...well, it made me devilishly self-conscious! And then, to _toy_ with me like that!

I seethed, vowing to block the door hereafter.

Perhaps I should point out to Monsieur Bouchard that HE would not be pleased had he suffered the same violation of his privacy! The thought of watching Bouchard lolling in the tub, washing his chest, running his hand down his belly...

I sprang from the side of my bed and headed for the door that led out of the bedroom to the common room. Let us get this over with, and whatever it was Bouchard 'needed' had best not affect my ability to slumber this night!

"I need you to write the boy and tell him that I have a gift for Christine and the child. You need to emphasize that it is part of my…my reparation to give this music to Christine. I wish only to encourage her to sing to her child, to use the gift that her father gave her. I…"

"Stop, Bouchard, I beg you! Wait." I put one hand to my head, mentally shifting my thoughts about. Since we were standing at my bedroom door, as I had just that instant opened it, I linked my arm through his and drew him to one of the couches bracketing the fireplace. "Let us begin at the beginning, shall we? You say you wish to write…"

I sat with my back to the arm and pulled my knees to my chest, feet up beneath my robe. He sat immediately next to me, and actually leaned into my legs. I made unhappy noises and shoo'ed him into scooting back a few inches.

"No…I am now writing…" He scowled intensely at my feet…or rather where they were located beneath the long robe.

"…you are writing music for Christine…for her child?"

"For her to sing to her child. "'_Lullabies…_cradle songs. Soothing compositions, written for the maternal voice, to help the little…er…creature sleep. _What is that upon your feet, Butler?_"

"Babies are not 'creatures' _Monsieur._" I had to smile…he was nearly manic with animation. "And you may not call the Vicomte "the boy" in my hearing."

"I will call him whatever I damned well…" His growl cut short upon my chin and eyebrows taking altitude. "Yes, of course. You are absolutely right, I should address him by his title, le' Vicomte de'Chagny'." His mouth twisted in an startling manner.

I burst out laughing. Now I understood his calling me 'Madame' when he wished to goad me. I hoped I did not look as sour as that, however! Patting his hand I whispered, "I know how much that cost you, my friend."

"No, you have no idea!" I was cast a resentful look.

Carefully composing my expression, I said, "You do remember she says nothing of singing at this time, Jerrod."

"Aislyne, she must not sing more than lightly, not until she has recovered fully from the birth and her abdominal muscles are completely healed. To do otherwise would be foolish, and could even be dangerous."

"Ahh! I will pass that along in my letter to Raoul. However, you are writing lullabies…andshe can sing these?"

"Naturally, as long as she does not attempt to fill the nursery full voice. These simple cradle songs do not require one tenth the breath and power."

"I see. Thank you for explaining without making me feel foolish, Monsieur." I inclined my head politely.

"That I would never do, Mademoiselle." Invading my corner of the couch yet again, Bouchard grabbed at my knees, wherein I attempted to correct him with a firm push to his closest shoulder. Oblivious, his focus never faltered, and he leaned in further. "I want to play them for you, Aislyne. I have several written, and the lyrics complete for all but two… _Please…_"

As if I could have dared deny him… "With pleasure, Bouchard. Please do unhand my…ah…limbs."

I did consider this a positive step; if nothing else he was no longer merely brooding at the piano, nor wondering when his nanny would next attack him. I was already thinking of what I would say to Raoul de'Chagny in the letter.

We adjourned to the piano wherein Bouchard pulled one of the heavy wingback chairs over to the side. "Please, Mademoiselle, sit."

I did so. I noticed he gave my feet another quick gander. I kept them tucked away as not to draw more attention.

Bouchard moved to the piano and pulled one of my sketchpads from beneath several newspapers. Opening the sketchpad, he also placed one of my good artist's pencils on the music stand. "In case I think of something additional…" he explained. Dipping his head he placed his hands upon the keys…

From the opening bars of the first composition, I was enrapt. Bouchard's voice was as warm and sweet as Belgian chocolate, curling about my senses, gentle in an engaging tenor range. Nowhere was there one discordant note, and the words flowed through one's mind as a leaf on the breeze. Soothing…peaceful…one did not listen so much as experience, and the feeling was that of…comfort and refuge, and a vast, transcendent beauty. I could not tell when one song segued into the next; they seemed to be seamlessly attached, and thus his voice crept it's way past my defenses.

It was with vague distress I realized the piano's voice had altered, falling into a minor key. His voice too had changed to a deep, velvety baritone that seemed to trail fingers through the hidden places in my mind, plundering my heart's secret desires…within my body, strumming dark chords in places never before touched. It was a pulsing heat in my blood, intoxicating as sweet wine, when his voice throbbed with ardor and passion. I lost myself, swept into and entwined within the deep carnal reverie that was his song.

And then…his voice stilled…and I came to what little sense was left me, gasping and wide-eyed in the chair, staring at the man who had gently but most thoroughly assaulted my senses. Bouchard's breathing was labored enough to whistle faintly, and beads of sweat stood upon his brow and upper lip. After a moment he bowed his head, his eyes closed

Anna stood at the end of the piano, her face awash with tears, hiccupping into a tea towel.

Bouchard's eyes snapped open, and though he did not lift his head, he looked first to me, and then Anna from beneath his brow. The result was rather appropriately demonic.

I gasped, "Bouchard…surely you did not play only…lullabies…?" I blotted tears from my burning face as surreptitiously as I could with my sleeves, still suffering aftershocks of sensation and emotion, not least of which was confusion.

"I became somewhat…carried away…" He shot a quick look at the young woman standing at the end of the piano when Anna sniffed loudly… "Why are you both crying? Was my music so horrible? Perhaps I should play them again…"

Both Anna and I said "No!" simultaneously. Anna turned to me then, and her expression one of surprised disbelief, whispered, "La chanson, il était seulement pour vous !" She cast one dark look at Bouchard. "Honte sur vous, monsieur!" Shaking her head and mumbling, she marched to her room, firmly closing the door.

"Butler, what is going on? I have no idea why that young woman castigates me, as I have done nothing to her!" He dropped his head into his hands and scratched at his tousled mop of hair, now dry.

"Bouchard, what did you play…_**after**_ the lullabies?"

Giving me an enigmatic look, he added, "I may have added a _arietta__ appassionato _that I have been composing…but it was only for you to hear. I had no idea Anna had left her room and was listening."

Appalled, I stared at Bouchard as a wicked smile crossed his features. Recalling the intimate effect of his 'arietta' on my sensibilities, I realized Anna Gadreau surely knew Jerrod Bouchard was playing his compellingly seductive music for _**me**_.

I sank deeper into the chair, burying my burning face within the wide sleeves of my robe. "Good Heavens, Bouchard. You did this just to prove your point…and before Anna Gadreau? I will never be able to look the woman in the face again!" Another thought set my hands gripping at the chair arms, growling, "But you have sung to her, too…yes?"

The victorious grin routed, he assumed disinterest, saying, "Naturally, as I was teaching her English and Italian through music. Simple songs that taught the basics, nothing in the least bit remarkable!"

I tilted my head, my suspicions confirmed. "And now you have asked that I not send the Gadreaus back to Paris. I find that…interesting…"

Bouchard shook his head forcefully. "No, no! I did not sing _appassionato_ in any form or fashion with Anna Gadreau, Madame! However," and the man frowned thoughtfully, "Chanson says I cast a spell with my voice…even when my intentions and attentions are anything but amatory." With a regretful shrug, Bouchard added, "Anna has a very nice voice, and I did enjoy singing with her. I cannot help that she found my innocent attentions…encouraging."

So, Bouchard had consulted Chanson about Anna Gadreau. How I would have liked to be privy to that conversation!

A bit ruefully, I admitted, "I should not be surprised. Did I not say your singing could be your fortune?"

And would that not be a nightmare for _me_…or perhaps his singing affected only love-struck spinsters and the occasional narcissistic _grisette_. "I can only assume you have not made it a habit of singing with other women."

Expression thoughtful, Bouchard answered slowly. "No…I cannot say that I have…besides Christine. In fact, only with Christine. Long ago…" His face fell, the dancing spark of amusement extinguished.

I abandoned the chair to stand by the piano, pulling Bouchard's closest hand from the keyboard. Clasping it gently, I said, "My dear sir, the lullabies are marvelous. I can well imagine the soothing effect they will have on little Aaron Philippe when sung by his loving mother."

"And you will write to the b…that is, to de'Chagny requesting he allow his wife to accept my gift?"

"I will indeed. I believe it is a wonderful gesture on your part, Monsieur. I am convinced you offer healing not only to Christine…but to _**yourself**_." Would it not be wonderful if this small gesture served to rebuild the original relationship between them? I so hoped it would! So diverted was I by this pleasant perspective, I did not perceive the change in Bouchard's focus until his other hand clasped mine, effectively holding me in place.

"But…you have not told me what you thought of my _arietta_, Mademoiselle Butler."

As much as I might wish to, I could not avoid his eyes, and again the emotions stirred by his composition sprang alive within my mind. However, I was not going to tell him what his arietta evoked within this spinster's foolish imagination. Instead I offered him one thin smile and said, "I do not appreciate being manipulated, Monsieur Bouchard. I accept your apology of this morning, and hope we can close the subject."

I quite firmly pulled my hand from between his.

One lone brow having dived to express open disappointment, Bouchard's face thereafter assumed a studied disinterest. I turned to go to my room.

"At least reveal the mystery of your footwear." Bouchard was standing at the piano, his arms latched across his breast.

Pulling up my robe just the tiniest bit I allowed him a good look at the woolen socks I wore, bright red toes and heels, grey body with bright red cuffs folded down to my ankles. I wiggled my toes at him.

"Very…attractive, Butler. Suits you most particularly."

"Thank you, Monsieur Bouchard. I bid you goodnight."

Whilst preparing for bed, I again found Louise's packet at the bottom of my travel basket, and after some consideration, turned the gaslight up and pulled the heavily glued and sealed package open. Within there was a sheaf of folded newspaper pages, enclosed with several sheets of the fine unbleached stationery Louise favored. The first page of the letter was absolute nonsense.

Mystified, I read through her grocery list, an amusing anecdote concerning one of her staff, and a roster of the names she had bestowed on the homeless cats who frequented the kitchen to the hospital. After one paragraph of similar nonsense at the top of the second page, I came to this:

"_It is my understanding you are stuck in Lyon until the mountain passes clear. I have given this missive, securely sealed, to de'Chagny as he let me know Christine was sending a letter via rail to you in Lyon. I am praying you receive it before your train moves on toward Italy. _

_Just this evening, my darling Rudolph gave me a piece of news that set off alarm bells within my mind concerning your present assignment. There is good reason to believe the man who died at Place de la Concorde was not Erik de'Carpentier, otherwise known as the Opera Ghost, the homicidal criminal who attempted to burn down the Opera Populaire two years ago. Rumor is that de'Carpentier has fled Paris for Italy, Germany or Switzerland, to avoid French justice. This is not known but by a very few, the Duke being one. _

_Within hours of the execution of de'Carpentier, two foreign gentlemen laid claim to the body-to be specific, the head-alleging they paid a minor official of the __Cour d'Assises a great__ deal of money for it. However, the de'Chagny family took immediate possession the instant the deceased's head hit the basket, encased the body in solid concrete and interred it in unconsecrated soil 'somewhere' on their estate in Meudon. They have refused anyone access to the location, and have filed claim of 'fictive kinship' through the Vicomtess de'Chagny, with the Ministry of Justice. _

_The two gentlemen, one an English lawyer, the other an Arab who represents an unspecified Eurasian ruler of a desert country, have lodged a charge with the Police Nationale alleging that de'Carpentier was not executed, and someone within __Élysée Palace__ itself abetted the escape of this criminal. They have simultaneously charged Raoul de'Chagny with several crimes against both French law, and foreign _sovereignty_ over their own 'property', and have demanded he relinquish de'Carpentier's body for inspection._

_Ails, I am afraid this story will soon leak to the press, and a manhunt of extraordinary proportions will ensue as bounty hunters and French military spread across France seeking de'Carpentier. I fear for the safety of anyone who is thought to have abetted the criminal in his escape. The Arab gentleman, whom Rudolph describes as ruthless, sadistic and violent, has declared he will find de'Carpentier and 'take what was paid for' regardless. Rudolph has encouraged the de'Chagny family take steps to protect themselves from possible retaliation against them. _

_I have enclosed a great many articles concerning de'Carpentier, who was to be executed March 28__th__, the very day you left for Italy. I gather the plaza was packed with those who wished to see him beheaded, and the Fifth Estate were well represented by several artistically gifted members—you will enjoy the illustrations, I am sure. I have translated the articles for you—you know where to look. Please read them, I beg you. _

_If your charge—that being the lickerish old Frenchman you are traveling to Italy with—in any way fits the general description of Erik de'Carpentier, I implore you-jump onto the very next train and come back to Paris! Come immediately to me and I will get you out of France safely. Send a telegram so that I may be at the train station to pick you up. I have enclosed several of my cards—produce one at the nearest telegram office, and it will insure I receive your message immediately. Use the others to frank for travel expenses. Please destroy this letter and enclosures after you have read them."_

Having delivered her frantic message, Louise returned to banal recitations of events and people of which I knew nothing and no one. After an additional page she signed off affectionately.

I returned to the frantic message within the letter and reread it carefully, then spent a good deal of time going over the news pages searching for the referenced articles and reading Louise's translations. I was amused to see she had circled various unrelated items on each news sheet: An article concerning a house party being held by a local matron, an ad for face powder allegedly manufactured from 'essence of pearl', an article concerning the newest production at the Theatre Comique, the recipe for onion and cheese soup. Upon the back of the news sheets she had carefully written the translations for the relevant articles between the lines of whatever was printed there.

Reading it was a trial, but by the time I had read the second article, I was riveted by the story of the Opera Ghost.

I NEED FEEDBACK! Okay?


	35. Chapter Thirty Four

**Chapter Thirty Four**

On my way to my morning visit with the horses, I first stopped at the hotel desk to leave a message for Monsieur Kahn, requesting he meet with me in the Tea Room at 10 o'clock this morning in the 'usual' salon if possible. I emphasized it was _very _important I speak with him, requesting regrets only. Asking that it be delivered to Mister Kahn's room immediately, I included suitable tip for both the desk clerk and the messenger.

With disappointment, I noted my friend James Crombie was not at the desk.

I was confident if anyone knew of the events set forth in Louise's letter, and what bearing they might have upon my patient, it would be Nadir Kahn. My intent was to see what details he offered before I shared news of the troubling situation in Paris. In fact, it could be imperative to do so if only to see where he stood in the entire scheme of things. Nadir Kahn was still an unknown quantity, no matter who he said he represented, or how trustworthy I intuitively thought him to be. To be quite honest, his reluctance to reveal himself to our 'friend', the apocryphal Monsieur Jerrod Bouchard was beginning to chafe.

Throwing off such lowering thoughts, I strode past the usual collection of lackeys and loiterers at the back delivery door without a glance to either side. I had never aroused more than the absently tipped hat or blank stare from any of them, my lack of feminine appeal obviously the best protection.

Already the day held promise of being a grand one: a cloudless sky, a hint of breeze, and enough chill even at this late hour to suggest it would not be uncomfortably warm later. I breathed deeply once well away from hotel, the scent of warm grass and horses the finest of perfumes, to my mind.

Upon reaching the stables I walked to the usual stalls near the center of the shedrow, only to find both empty. The stable boy, Ernest, appeared at my elbow. "They are out there, in the coachmens' pens, Mademoiselle. I put them out first thing with fresh hay and water, just as your man requested." With an open grin, Ernest immediately stuck out his hand, awaiting his tip.

I raised an eyebrow at his patent extortion, and headed for the back of the shedrow, idly wondering who had thought it necessary to put the horses outside before I had visited them.

The coachmens' paddocks are basically a row of large pens, usually containing relay horses for the public coaches that patronize Le Corbusier, or the teams of those coach travelers who are only staying overnight. They run parallel to the back of the shedrow, with several extending beyond to abut Rue de Monica, in open view of the hotel. At my appearance beside the shedrow, Aminta called loudly, making it easy to find them in the very last paddock next to the road.

Having noted the fresh water and bountiful hay, I crawled through the fence, (eschewing the gate) and honored Aminta's request for a belly scratch, giving the girth area a good working over. We moved on to withers, tailhead, and that itchy place between her jowls, wherein she extended her neck in ecstasy, chin puckered, and upper lip quivering right to left. Watching the mare's contortions, I contemplated the walk back to the stables to fetch the grooming box, and again wondered who had thought it necessary to move our horses…

"Well, isn't that sweet, Davies? Pattie sure loves scratchin' on those damn' horses, now don't she? Irish, how 'bout you give me some o' that scratchin'? I certainly got the itch for you _right here_…"

The French guardsmen Plourde and Davies stood betwixt me and the hotel, several feet apart, as if to block my return. Either they had been drinking or they just naturally appeared appallingly drunk. Plourde, being spokesman for the pair, was making obscene motions…a fact I did my best to ignore.

"Mister Plourde, I have no interest in speaking with you. Please go away."

Bending over I tapped John's right front knee, thereby requesting he raise his foot so I might examine his hoof.

"Yes ma'am!" Raucous laughter. "You're just hangin' out here to pet the horsies, 'haint that so, eh, 'Pattie? Or maybe that freak we's watchin' is on 'is way out an' you two can do some pettin' on each other, hey?"

More nasty, howling laughter.

I was inclined to continue ignoring the fool, except for the dozen or so men idling just across the yard, who were now unabashedly watching, moving closer to hear the new entertainment offered them by 'that' female. Embarrassment sent the blood rushing up my neck and face, even as caution sent my right hand diving into my pocket. Gripping the pistol beneath my skirt, I reminded myself that insults, no matter how vile, were insufficient provocation to shoot a man. If I did not wish to continue being publicly ass-jawed by this lackwit, I needed to leave the area. Using the gate, I exited the paddock, prepared to walk boldly past them for the safety of the hotel.

Except…I was too damned pig-headed to do that. I was not willing to cut short my time with the horses, and very resistant to the idea I was 'safe' only when accompanied by Chanson or Bouchard or in the hotel. In fact, I became determined to show Plourde I could be _very_ intimidating. Planting myself before the paddock, I cocked a hip and awaited his intentions.

Chances were he was all wind anyway; 'beer bravery', my father called it.

Plourde leered at me, spat, and drawled, "There's a flash cove what thinks you spend too much time with that chatfaced lag you're travelin' with, Pattie-girl. He's payin' us dearly to do a napper and bring you by for his bit. We'll be takin' you for a ride in yon growler."

He pointed to somewhere behind me; I chose not to turn away and look. With a sinking heart I realized these two were here to kidnap me, sent by Abrigaun…it had to be Abrigaun! 'Flash cove' fit him perfectly.

Wheezing thickly, Plourde laughed. "It's a long ride 'cross city to this swell's crib…I'm thinkin' you n' me, why…we's got time to put me nebs out to grass, if'n you know what I mean. And Davies can get his dab in, too, Pattie. 'Course, you can fight us all you want, but Baptiste's got the cure for that stick up your arse…" Another leer and the man actually grabbed himself vigorously.

Such talk was nothing new to me…I'd heard worse in my years in London. But the man's insolent, filthy-mouthed familiarity and the open threat of sexual assault, all before an ever-growing crowd of onlookers had me struggling to contain my temper. At his mention of the waiting coach, I sidestepped closer to the shedrow, moving away from the road. I did not wish to be grabbed from behind by an assailant from that direction. I certainly had no faith those watching would raise the alarm!

Plourde immediately shuffled sideways, scrambling to stay betwixt me and the hotel. "Now, don't be thinkin' of runnin'…"

Goaded beyond bearing, I curled my lip, snarling, "I do not run, Plourde. And I will shoot you if you attempt to lay a hand upon me." Belatedly I realized I would have to shoot through my skirt because pulling the large pistol quickly through the fake pocket was problematical at best. I was not confident with my aim in such circumstances, and did not wish to kill anybody, even Plourde.

"Are you tryin' to tell me you got a pistol in your skivvies?" Both men bent over, laughing nastily. Plourde actually used this as an excuse to lurch towards me…abruptly straightening, he lumbered at me with arms extended.

I stepped back to the fence, my left hand upon it to steady me. Turning my right hip, I cocked my leg…and as he chose not to take the hint…he met my boot traveling straight to the juncture of his thighs. I gave him a powerful crack with my entire leg and body behind it; leading with my heel, I shoved as hard as I could. He flew backward a considerable distance, slamming into Davies, sending them both down in a tangle of arms and legs and flying dust.

Plourde rolled, cursing and holding his smarting bollocks, but just as I had predicted, rage soon drove him back to his feet. He started warily towards me again, this time fists ready to do me harm.

Fortunately, the delay had been enough to pull my pistol free of my pocket. Bringing it up from behind me, I gripped it in both hands, to aim low at his belly. I schooled my expression to one of steely calm, even as fury threatened my self control. If the man would have looked in my eyes, he would have seen his guts blasted all to hell and gone…

"Stay back, Plourde or I will shoot you," I warned the man stoutly.

Several people in the stable yard moved closer, stepping to the right or left to avoid being in the potential path of a bullet. None moved to interfere, however.

"You goddamned bitch, I'm going to…" Voice thick with menace, the man actually advanced a pace.

"Perhaps I should just shoot you anyway, Plourde. Obviously I have witnesses in abundance to your attack!" I felt as if I was talking past cotton wool, my mouth dry. Fortunately, my hands were not shaking, and I believe I looked and sounded calm and deadly serious.

Plourde hesitated, focusing on the wicked pistol in my hands, his face a study in conflict. Seconds ticked past, and the tightness in my chest grew steadily. Finally he shuffled backwards, his hands held out from his body. He kept walking backward until he ran into Davies yet again, who grabbed tightly upon his cohort's collar and sleeve, and loudly assured me "We're goin' now, okay? I'll make sure he don't bother you agin'. We're going!" Obviously, Davies didn't want to play this game.

I watched both men stagger across the yard to the road, heading for the ominously quiet carriage. Before they could reach it a man moved from the far side of the horses, clambering up to the driver's box to whip the horses into a hard gallop. The unmarked equipage thundered past the yelling guardsmen and then the hotel, barely slowing to make the hard turn onto Avenue St. Jean.

My two kidnappers found themselves abandoned afoot in the middle of the street. After a moment's cursing conference, they continued up the road, no doubt knowing of a likely rumhole in that direction. I watched until they had disappeared behind a rise. My audience, which now included several women, began to disperse once the coach had passed.

I marched, rubber-legged, along the fence until I again faced Aminta and John over the top rail. Casting one long, hot glare at those few who still stood watching me, I methodically uncocked my pistol, set the empty chamber before the hammer, and put it back through the false pocket of my skirt, holstering it firmly. Then I laid my arms on the top rail and rested my forehead upon them to hide the effort it took to pull air into my seizing lungs, fighting the urge to sit down…to lay down…to make a further cake of myself before the blatantly uncaring humanity that surrounded me.

Even Aminta nibbling at my hair did not comfort me. But…I would not cry!

It was a long while before I could walk back to the hotel. I was very late for the meeting with Nadir Kahn.

oooooooooooooooooooooooo

Nadir Kahn sat pressed against the wicker back of his chair. The Mademoiselle…she of the inner serenity, unshakeable composure and grace…was presently hissing expletives, twisting her serviette to tatters, and shaking with rage. Her lovely face was nearly unrecognizable; eyes pinched, cheeks tear-streaked, nose fiery red, lips curled thinly from gritted teeth. And although he was confident she meant him no harm, he thought it best to stay out of arm's reach…at least for the moment.

"_Why_? _What is going through Abrigaun's mind _that he would send those two….ehhhhh!…_ólta __mallaigh __coirpeach_ (drunken damned criminals) to accost me, to _publicly_ speak to me in such terms…as if I were no better than a_…fuiteach_ striapach_! (_bloody whore_) T_hreaten me with rape and…_and worse_? _A shìorraidh!_ (for Heaven's sake)_What_ have I done to deserve such treatment? Ohhhhhh, _místuama amadán__ sin__!_ (that thoughtless fool) _Should I find him…why…I…I…_"!

Kahn repeatedly requested she sit and calm herself. Twice she had attempted to do just that, only to pop from her chair and begin pacing in the enclosed space of the small salon, cursing and snarling questions he could not answer.

Still, she was a good deal calmer now than she had been much earlier. Upon her arrival, looking windblown and a trifle wild-eyed, she seemed nonetheless unremarkable, allowing the waiter to seat her, smiling pleasantly as Kahn poured her coffee. Once the waiter had left the salon, however, she had cast Kahn one bleak look…and burst into a storm of tears. Even her anger was preferable to the sight of his Mademoiselle inconsolably sobbing into her hands, her entire frame shuddering with the violence of her emotions.

Eventually she was able to coherently relate what had happened to her that morning, just minutes before she had arrived at the Tea Room. Stuttering through the recitation of the French guardsman's foul threats had ignited her temper, and fists clenched, she leapt from her chair to begin pacing the salon, lapsing frequently into profanity in her mother tongue. Kahn did not speak or understand Gaelic, but he knew profanity when he heard it.

At the height of her fury, Kahn had prayed that Monteque Abrigaun had the good sense to spare himself from her righteous anger by staying well away. He was very afraid that had the lawyer walked into the Tea Room at that moment, Aislyne Butler would have gunned him down.

Gradually she had recovered her emotional balance. Having returned to her seat, the Mademoiselle covered her tear-reddened eyes with one slightly grimy hand, saying, "Mister Kahn, this is not why I asked you to meet me, I assure you. However, this is the _second time_Abrigaun has attempted to kidnap me. I have done my very best to dissuade him from this behavior. Even when I was under the impression the man was unmarried, I did _nothing_ to encourage him to think I wished more than pleasant conversation." Aislyne now began twisting her hands in a fashion that was surely painful, had she been paying any attention.

"Mister Kahn, I did think Monty…Abrigaun delightful company during the journey from the coast to Paris, although I assure you, our conduct was beyond reproach. Despite the fact he makes no secret of his married state, his behavior has gone from mildly flirtatious to…to attempts to kiss me in the hall outside of our hotel suite! I have had to become quite…brutal…in repelling his advances. I am at a loss as to what more I can do to dissuade the man's attentions! I have no idea what I have done to encourage this…"

The Mademoiselle lapsed into inarticulate gestures, her rounded cheeks and shapely earlobes reddening to match her nose. So emphatically did she shake her head, hairpins flew about her, releasing tendrils of tawny copper hair to dangle beside her long neck and rest in heaped curls upon her shoulders. Once again the mademoiselle mopped at her eyes and nose, drawing calming breaths the while to regain her composure.

After several minutes of restorative and companionable silence, Kahn thought it safe to comfort her, the calm, capable woman returned, where before she had been a raging virago. Pulling both of Mademoiselle Butler's hands across the small table, holding them between his, he murmured soothingly, "No, no, Mademoiselle. Please…you need not torment yourself so. You have done nothing wrong. You are merely laboring under an erroneous assumption…well, several to be exact."

Quite abruptly he found himself staring into eyes turned hard and narrow with open suspicion. In fact, Aislyne Butler's entire demeanor was that of cold, cautious attention.

With a wince, Kahn remembered the woman did carry a pistol. Pulling his hands carefully from where they pressed hers upon the table, he held them up and sank back in his chair. "Abrigaun is not married, and is likely never to be, as he lives with his mother. He is the second son of the second wife, so stands to inherit nothing."

"Oh…" The Mademoiselle's expression warmed several degrees. Encouraged, Kahn continued with his revelations. "Furthermore, I do not believe Abrigaun is as much romantically inclined as he is feeling…responsible for your choice as Bouchard's nurse companion."

"Ah. Yes, of course." Aislyne Butler looked ruefully at the table, saying, "Because he feels responsible…that it is _all his fault_. Yes, he has said just that." Her brows dipped thoughtfully and then Kahn was again pinned with a level look. "What I do not understand is why he is now compelled to remove me from this situation, using force, if necessary. And yes…it would be nice to know why I was chosen. I am merely competent at my job, Mister Kahn, nothing more! Surely there were others in France…here in Paris who were better qualified!"

Kahn smiled glibly. "Ah, Mademoiselle Butler, you are being modest! You have no idea how difficult it was to find someone Christine de'Chagny would even consider as her dear Maestro's caretaker. It was Abrigaun's description of your service to his sister that won the Vicomtess' conditional approval, though she insisted upon meeting with you as well."

"That would be expected, yes." Her expression remained skeptical, but Kahn was encouraged, and continued.

"Because of Monsieur Bouchard's…eh…brush with the law, there was a need for a caretaker who could defend themselves…a skill you have most ably displayed in your ordeal of this morning, yes?"

The Mademoiselle's expression turned a bit sour. "Ha. Ably displayed to many, in fact. I have made a habit of being on exhibit far too often behind this hotel."

Kahn dismissed this concern with a wave. "I thank God that you are a capable woman, possessing uncommon wit and bravery, Mademoiselle. What else could you have done this morning but defend yourself from these brutes?" At her silence, he growled, "I find it reprehensible that no one stepped forward to defend you!"

Expression shading again to rueful, Aislyne Butler shifted a bit in her chair. "Well…the crème of chivalrous France spends little time behind Le Corbusier, Mister Kahn. I have come to the conclusion those who warned me of my folly in going out there alone may have had better understanding of the situation than I."

Kahn nodded in firm agreement. "I hope you will keep that in mind in future, young lady! Especially in light of Abrigaun's misguided attempts to rescue you from whatever offends him about Jerrod Bouchard."

Both drank their coffee in thoughtful silence. However, Kahn noted the Mademoiselle's expression grew tighter by the moment. Finally she snapped, most decisively, _"It does not make sense, Mister Kahn_! There is something…" She shrugged.

"What does not make sense, Mademoiselle?"

"Why would Abrigaun _now_ decide to…to behave in such an unprofessional, and hasty manner? Something has changed since I spoke with him in Corbeil. There was no talk of fault or blame then, and despite the man's dammable loose-handed behavior, I do believe you are correct he suffers no lover's affliction." Shaking her head, she appeared to ponder this. "A kidnapping in broad daylight seems …desperate, do you not agree?" Although her expression was mild, those fine eyes were as sharp as razors.

Nonplussed, Kahn equivocated, saying, "I do not know de'Chagny's lawyer well at all, Mademoiselle. But, I will admit…", Kahn took a deep breath, "…that it was a surprise to find he was here in Lyon. I might wonder if de'Chagny himself knows of it."

"Have you any news, from the de'Chagnys or…or from your contacts within the Sûreté Nationale? Or is it the Minstry of Defense?" The Mademoiselle laughed weakly, and shrugged, adding, "I am at a loss as to what would set Abrigaun upon this crackbrained path. I had hoped you knew _something_…"

Kahn was at a loss. Aislyne Butler's entire affect was now that of anxious anticipation, and her behavior was growing more odd by the moment. He wanted to think it was reaction to her earlier confrontation with the guardsmen…

He laid both hands upon the table before her, a symbolic setting of all his cards before her. "I have heard nothing of any import from the home office, Mademoiselle Butler. Indeed, I am here on personal, not official business, and would not expect to be contacted by them for anything less than open declaration of war."

There was a painfully silent stretch of several seconds…and then the Mademoiselle dropped her eyes to the table. "I apologize, Mister Kahn, as I am far too concerned with myself this morning. I do appreciate your kindness whilst I wept and raged, ruining your lovely breakfast."

He smiled, and again gently patted her closest hand. "It has been many years since I have provided comfort to a lovely young woman in tears. I should thank you for reminding me what rewarding duty it is."

"Ever the gallant, Mister Kahn." Despite the pleasant repartee, the Mademoiselle was now avoiding his eye. Gamely, he sought to engage her in further conversation, saying, "I was telling you how it was Abrigaun submitted you as candidate for Bouchard's caregiver. Would you like me to continue?"

"Yes. Yes, Mister Kahn, I would."

So it was that Kahn found himself telling the Mademoiselle of the search by the conspirators'…de'Chagny, Kahn himself, Bouchard's anonymous benefactor, and to a lesser extent, Abrigaun…for a suitable companion for 'Jerrod Bouchard'. He kept the narrative light, constantly aware that although Aislyne Butler laughed and commented freely, her entire affect was that of subtle withdrawal.

The group had at first sought a man for the assignment, as it was felt to be of foremost importance that the caregiver/companion be able to control Bouchard whatever his mood, and defend himself if necessary. The initial search, therefore, was for a man of good family in poor circumstances, who was of good health and size, possessing a steady temperament.

It was soon brought home to them that such a paragon did not exist. 'Gentlemen' did not take such assignments, no matter what the inducements, or how reduced their circumstances. Shysters and mountebanks of the lowest ilk promulgating the idea they were 'gentlemen' lined up for the position, however, all of whom were soon shown the door.

It was therefore decided to advertise, under a 'blind' employer, for such a caretaker with the employment agencies, leaving out the requirement for 'gentleman' status. This also proved unsatisfactory. Those who applied for the position possessed the identical mindset of those who worked in the charity wards and public hospitals across France; none better than thugs and degenerates, who likely preyed upon their helpless patients.

De'Chagny, Abrigaun and Kahn together interviewed every applicant. After one afternoon spent in interviews with several gentlemen who were predominantly of the 'physical intimidation by any means' camp, young de'Chagny had begun pulling his hair and generally throwing a tantrum. In a rage, he yelled, "Good God in heaven, is this the best modern medicine offers the afflicted?"

It was at this moment Abrigaun had spoke of his acquaintance with the woman who had brought healing and happiness to his sister, claiming Mademoiselle Aislyne Butler was a true "Angel of Healing." Once having secured conversational supremacy, Abrigaun had waxed nostalgic upon the woman's superior qualities in her role as a nurse/companion, including her fearlessness in dealing with the dangerously insane. Indeed she had the ability to calm and soothe the most beastly of madmen into biddable lambs.

Here in Kahn's narration Aislyne Butler began laughing helplessly, and Kahn was relieved to stop. Never would he wish to reveal to her just how much deeper investigations into her life and family ties had gone.

Due to the relentless passing of time…time they could not be sure of having in good supply…a trained operative had been dispatched post-haste to England to learn what he could of Miss Aislyne Butler. He had returned within two weeks with a comprehensive report that sent the group's excitement into near celestial fervor, the universal thought being their pressing need had been answered by serendipity. De'Chagny's eyes met Kahn's in rare mutual understanding, and breathed in absolute awe, "She golden! She's _**perfect**_!"

Aislyne Butler, daughter of Connor and Bridget Butler, was 36 years old, unmarried, and unattached. She worked horrendous hours, played her piano every night, and dressed in 'modest' fashion. She did not display a great deal of wealth, living very modestly in a small apartment over the local public library. She owed no money, but had little savings.

Miss Butler came from a sizeable family, but all of her siblings were far removed, some in London, the rest in Ireland or further abroad. The woman was a ward matron for Nettles Home, an elite, progressive sanitarium in Brighton, England. She was well-liked and respected by those she worked with.

News of particular interest was that her family owned Ballinhassig Stud, of Cork County, Ireland. Potentially troublesome was the fact that her father's family was of the Scottish peerage, although he had sold off his family's lands in Scotland and had roundly repudiated his title and heritage.

Aislyne Butler did have two driving passions: she was a breakneck rider with the local hunt club, and a trophied member of the local chapter of the Women's Firearm Association, having, within the year brought home the individual championship for the local chapter at the regional shoot.

Mademoiselle Butler spoke her native tongue and English, but knew no French. This was no small thing…they would be passing off a regional icon as Christine's scarred and reclusive uncle. It would be preferable she did not read or speak French during a time when the _Fantôme _d'opéra would doubtless be the topic of conversation and the sensation _du jour_ of the fifth estate.

As to Abrigaun's conduct in the past week, Kahn had no answers. He might have thought it had to do with the 'no hostage' rule that served as protection for the conspirators against discovery, should de'Carpentier prove less than appreciative of his rescue from death. But that had been made 'law' long before Aislyne Butler had signed the contract, agreed by all. As Mademoiselle Butler had stated, it made no sense that Abrigaun should cavil at any tenet of the agreement at this late date.

Of course, no one had expected Erik de'Carpentier to display enough common sense to accept his salvation meekly. Raoul de'Chagny was adamant that 'the monster' who had terrorized his wife should never be given an opportunity to return to Paris. It was at his insistence his own men be assigned as guards, handpicked for their marksmanship.

The benefactor, for all his fawning adoration for the musical genius he wished to save, expected the highest degree of security be maintained at all times. He was not optimistic his role in freeing de'Carpentier would remain concealed should Erik reappear in Paris. Such an event would be disastrous to his political aspirations.

Even Christine de'Chagny realized the man for whom she had once felt the warmest filial affection and respect had become an unknown cipher. She feared him only insofar as he might harm Raoul or their child, that being enough to justify the need for some sort of deterrent to the man returning to Paris. She was not given the final details, however…

Although Nadir Kahn had agreed with the necessity of stopping Erik should he decide to return to Paris with vengeance in mind, he was not happy with the scorched-earth policy being advocated by the more powerful of his fellow conspirators.

Therefore it had been decided by de'Chagny, and the benefactor, and to a less extent, Nadir Kahn that one of the unchangeable edicts would be that of no quarter given for the Mademoiselle should Erik choose to return to Paris dragging his luckless nurse-companion with him. Aislyne Butler was as good as dead if Erik thought to use her as a guarantee of his continued freedom.

Kahn remembered well Montaque Abrigaun's reaction to this decision. He had cried...the man had wept like a heartbroken child.

And despite the celebration among the conspirators evoked by the discovery of this true paragon in women's skirts, Kahn could not shake the sense of predestination…of having been but a pawn in a much larger game.

He'd been reminded of a quote that went, "A wise man should not believe in coincidence."

**ooooooooooooooo**

Nadir Kahn and Aislyne Butler made their way through most of the carafe of coffee and platter of fruit before the Mademoiselle gave her excuses and left Kahn sitting in the salon, tapping his fingers against the linen tablecloth.

Tipping the waiter generously when he came with the cheque, Kahn was also sure to deliver an effusive compliment to Madame Rocquette on his way out of the Tea Room. Instead of going to his room, he chose to walk in the extensive gardens, seeking answers amongst the stylized plantings and birdsong.

Nadir Kahn was deeply troubled.

Of greatest concern was the assault upon Aislyne Butler. The thought that de'Chagny's lawyer had paid the two guardsmen to grab the Mademoiselle in broad daylight before a crowd of onlookers was disturbing. For Abrigaun's henchmen to treat her with such disrespect, with or without Abrigaun's approval was infuriating. Had they succeeded in overcoming and securing her in the coach, what would have been her treatment at the hands of these deviants? And did the mademoiselle not say this was the _**second**_ attempt to kidnap her?

Khan found he needed to dust off the sundered remains of the white carnation he had moments before pulled from his lapel. Shredding the blossom had in no way satisfied his wish to throttle de'Chagny's solicitor!

Kahn thought it very clear that Aislyne Butler knew something that she had expected Kahn to know also. More to the point, she had expected him to tell her of it, perhaps as validation of what she knew. Finally, she had made it abundantly clear that she believed it related to Abrigaun's thinking his 'Angel of Healing' needed to be removed from the assignment, by force if necessary.

Unfortunately, Kahn's contacts had not passed on anything that related to de'Carpentier, Bouchard, Abrigaun, or indeed, Lyon, France within the past weeks. It was business as usual within the R.G's office.

Nor had he been contacted by de'Chagny, or Erik's benefactor, both of whom knew where he was. Of the agency packets he had received, the most pressing item had been that of insuring a bolt of bridal silk purchased for a department manager's daughter was timely sent by rail.

As Kahn was not, in fact, 'working', he could not set a watcher on Abrigaun or covert guard upon Aislyne Butler, much less sic a few of his men on the errant French guardsmen to offer them a lesson in proper behavior. There was only himself, and for the first time in his career, it was not enough.

Perhaps most upsetting of all, whatever had driven Aislyne Butler to request the morning's meeting had either slipped her mind…or she had ultimately decided not to discuss it with Kahn.

It was the latter possibility that disturbed Nadir Kahn greatly.


	36. Chapter Thirty Five

I wish to give a shout-out to my bestest reviewer and most faithful and patient reader **Hot4Gerry**. Despite my rewrites, missed deadlines and the vulgarities of my undisciplined life, she has remained my stalwart reader throughout this story. She is up there with Samwise the Hobbit, Doctor Watson, and Shrek's sidekick Donkey. God Bless you, Leslie! Take a bow!

I therefore dedicate this chapter (that contains much Erik) to you!

Chapter Thirty Five

I am slow to leave my bed, having spent one restless night too many in the past week. By the time I am washed, brushed and dressed, Anna has tapped twice upon my bedroom door. I do, eventually, appear wherein she disappears to fetch my breakfast.

Chanson is on the long divan before the fireplace, reading the morning's papers, drinking coffee. Looking up, he smiles, murmuring, "A late night, hmm?"

I grunt and ignore him. He is entirely too interested in my relationship with Butler. I take the newest edition of _Le Temps_ and sit at table long enough to consume toasted bread heavily spread with jam and honey, and preview the news of the day…or yesterday, as it were.

Anna eventually departs noisily to the hotel laundry, for an extended visit. She has cast several dark glances my way, and made reference to last evening's 'scandalous' music. I bite my thumb at her elegantly satin-swathed back as she struggles through the suite doors, heavy basket of laundry in arms.

Mildly put out by her hypocrisy, I return to the newspaper.

There is a report…written in hyperbolic terms…of the French assault on Bamako, Senegal, the general tone being that of a Walter Scott novel, i.e. 'the grandeur of the battlefield,' written for the ingenuous reader. Lead by Lieutenant Colonel Borgnis-Desbordes, the campaign is just another self-aggrandizing trump by Brière de l'Isle, who has repeatedly been censured by the Assembly for his brutal tactics against the natives. I predict the man will be looking for a new job come summer.

I am no pacifist, but the current administration's push for colonial expansion is troubling when Prussia and Germany pant like hungry dogs over the thinly guarded flanks of France! I scowl fiercely into my coffee, and turn the page.

Of more interest is the recent premier of 'Le Chasseur Maudit' at the Salle Érard by the Société Nationale de Musique. Franck calls the production a 'symphonic poem', a term first used by Lizst, which seems merely a clever way of saying it is opera _sans_ actors. Liszt has written several of these, which I find are very protracted affairs better suited as background music for house parties. Despite the stated ambition that the music would encourage listeners to 'visualize the scenes, ideas and moods that inspired the composer', I find they ask too much from the usual concert-goer, who soon find gossip and flirtation with their closest neighbor more engaging.

Having done with Le Temps, I move to the shorter divan, insisting Chanson relinquish the _Petit Parisien_ he is obviously not actually reading. Chanson looks as if he is ready to fall asleep.

"Long night, eh?" I mock Chanson, with a smile.

Bleary eyed, he grins nonetheless. "There is a constant game of _vingt et un_ going at the café across the street. Of course, it is the women who make it worthwhile…"

I cluck disapprovingly, and murmur, "Cards and women. You…to whom I must look for guidance."

"And so you should, my friend. I won a brace of louies and spent time with a most willing woman last night."

I can think of nothing to say to this admission. Opening his eyes, Chanson smiles widely at me. "Perhaps our next excursion should be an evening across the street…at the card table, of course."

I can only say, weakly, "Of course."

Chanson again sags comfortably into the divan seat cushions, and within moments is softly snoring. Damn the man and his thoroughly satisfied smile.

Suddenly the news of the day offers little of interest. Once assured that Chanson sleeps witlessly, I leave the divan to circumnavigate the suite, looking out the bay windows at the busy street, scowling at the piano I am far too restless to play. I wander about, seeking to pinpoint exactly what has me in such distemper when I realize…I wish to talk with Aislyne Butler…I want her here.

I find myself standing in her room, my eyes on her small desk, where an empty heavy paper package sits agape, its contents removed. There is the acrid scent of burnt paper in the room as well, masking Butler's usual scent of roses. Without thought I investigate the small brass waste can next to the desk, and find the scorched remnants of three sheets of creased folio stationery therein, beneath which are several sheets of half-charred newsprint.

Silently cursing at my own meddlesome nature, I gingerly pull the sheets of folio from the can, noting the second page is the worst damaged. Reading the top sheet, I have to wonder…is this what women consider deserving of time and postage?

I peruse the few lines of round script remaining upon the second page:

"…_baked it in an emesis pan. You will agree, her message was unmistakable and had the desired effect. She is much happier these days, having been relieved of a most burdensome suitor! _

_It is my understanding you are stuck in Lyon until the mountain passes clear. I have given this missive, securely sealed, to de'Chagny as…" _

The top of the next line of script is all that remains, and I cannot quickly decipher the loops and arcs remaining. The last page is as the first…scorched across the bottom one-third, but like the first contains naught but foolishness.

The half-dozen sheets of newsprint are no more forthcoming, having burned better by nature of their light weight. However, the top halves of the sheets are largely intact, as if they were held together, lit, and dropped into the can before they were much consumed. The narrowing shape of the can quickly put out the flames due to lack of air.

Among the several discernable illustrations, I see an upraised hand, bony fingers spread. Hmmmm….

Four other sheets reveal more illustrations and articles of the Opera Ghost's final hours; all are in French. There are randomly circled advertisements, and one 'social' article boxed in heavy pencil, none of which relate to the Ghost. The last sheet contains nothing of note…except on the charred few inches remaining below there is embossing as if that of hand-printed words, in a very small hand, with regular spacing between the lines. I cannot read more than a word or two…

I hear the unmistakable sound of the main suite door opening, and Aislyne's voice calling for Anna. As Chanson informs her of Anna's whereabouts, I carefully replace the papers into the waste can, and shove it beneath the desk. Arranging myself in a supine position upon her bed, I orient my head upon her quilt folded at the foot and press my hands to my chest, close my eyes and assume an air of suffering.

Exclaiming, "He was just here," I hear Chanson throw open the door to my room.

Aislyne enters her room to find me, apparently limp with pain, upon her bed.

"What?…"

I feebly wave one hand, to whine piteously, "I am here…yes. I came to find something for my head…it aches frightfully…" I again arrange my hands upon my chest as though ready for Dame Death. "I could not bear to bend over to fetch the box."

Aislyne is instantly at the bedside to touch my forehead, murmuring wordless comfort, her fingers warm and gentle against my brow. "I will make you a draught. Just lie there." She drags the case from beneath the bed, and there is the sound of clinking bottles and of paper packets being shifted about as she kneels beside the bed. Silence…she seems to be unmoving…perhaps reading? Fiercely I fight the urge to peek.

The box is shoved aside rather briskly, and with the slightest creak of knees she rises to walk two paces from the bed, pull the chair from beneath the desk, and with a soft sigh she subsides onto it. Glass touches upon glass, and the sound of pouring liquid precedes that of a bottle being set firmly upon the desk. Unease dawns as I hear her take one rather noisy sip.

"So…did this headache start before you rifled my trash, or…after?"

_Zut alors! _

Pushing myself up, I meet Aislyne's eyes, presently over the rim of a glass containing a generous dose of whiskey. The waste can sits midway between the desk and bed, silent witness to my nefarious nature.

I open my mouth to apologize, only to be coolly interrupted.

"You have soot on your shirt and hand, Bouchard." She takes a sip, visibly rolling the liquor about in her mouth, eyes narrowed. "But...truth be told, I would have done the same given the opportunity. I vow you did not find much of interest…Louise has no talent as a correspondent." She takes another sip of her whiskey, eyeing me guilelessly over the glass. Is she laughing at me?

Pulling out my handkerchief, I hastily brush at the telltale line of fine black ash across my shirtfront and from the back of my hand, keeping an eye on Aislyne Butler. She honestly appears not a whit concerned with my dubitable behavior, having crossed her ankles and assumed a most uncharacteristically loose-limbed posture within the low backed chair.

Further study reveals her nails are dirty from giving both horses a good scratch, and her hair is but partially pinned. Her eyes are suspiciously puffy, and there are the unmistakable tracks of tears down her cheeks.

Concerned, I rise from my seat on the bed. "My dear Aislyne! You are…"

She waves a hand carelessly in my direction. "Sit down, Bouchard. I am just fine…the horses are fine. Everything is just…" She makes a most disturbing face, rather like that of a fractious child. "Pffft! Fine!" She takes another sip of the fragrant whiskey.

I sit, as requested, awaiting further clarification for her extraordinary behavior.

Aislyne sets the glass upon her knee, her thoughts turning patently troubled, and gazes upon her dusty boot tips. "No…I am being less than candid. I cannot say I am 'fine' when, honestly, I am not. My friend, I have been greatly disappointed today, my trust cut to pieces by those from whom I thought better…a great deal better! By the whole of humanity. Truly…you have _no_ idea…" Aislyne's stoic expression falters, wherein she takes another gulp from the glass.

I think briefly to argue that point…but am instead compelled to stand and step to her side. Reaching for her hand, I press it between mine, a rather inadequate gesture, but I am helpless in the face of her obvious unhappiness. Aislyne responds with an unsteady smile and welling eyes, most out of character for my Aislyne. She sets her glass upon the desk and pulls a severely abused handkerchief from her pocket, pressing it to her eyes.

Without thought, I move behind her and begin pulling the few remaining pins from her hair.

"What are you doing?" Aislyne abruptly sits upright, throwing her head up and moving forward as if she means to leave the chair; I lay my hands upon her shoulders, gently urging her back.

"Your hair is in great disarray, my dear. I thought only to remove the few hairpins that remain." I gently untangle the hairpins from her hair; released, it falls past her shoulders to the middle of her back, just brushing the low chairback. I cannot stop from smoothing my hands once lightly down the silken fall, amazed by its color…golden auburn with fiery copper and gilt highlights through its shimmering length. For a moment I am lustfully transfixed at the thought of actually gathering it within my hands…

"Bouchard, we must talk." Aislyne abruptly springs from the chair, and striding across the room, looks out at Chanson, whose breathing and position signify he is again fast asleep upon the divan.

Aislyne carefully closes the door till it is just ajar, and finger crossing her lips, whispers, "We must speak quietly and hope Dietré sleeps soundly and that Anna is delayed." Grabbing the desk chair, she drags it near her dresser and for the second time in five minutes I am commanded, "Sit."

Settling upon the bench before her dresser, Aislyne begins brushing her hair with brutal strokes, such that I must look away or rip the hairbrush from her hand. Instead I grit my teeth and growl, "Perhaps you first would first tell me who has upset you."

The look I receive is classic Butler, nose and chin elevated, her composure restored…yet her eyes are shadowed with bitter secrets. "We have no time for that, Bouchard."

Swiveling fully upon the bench to face me, Aislyne levels the hairbrush at my chest as if a weapon, her voice low and intense. "Bouchard, you do remember our meeting at the convent in Paris, do you not? You gave your word to do as I requested, without question."

Placing a forefinger upon the brush, I 'aim' it to the side. "I do remember the occasion and all particulars, Madame Butler…although the 'without question' doesn't sound at all like me." I grin playfully, but a frisson of unease threatens to sour my breakfast.

Aislyne returns to the mirror and using both hands, twists her hair into a thick coil, moving up the back of her head. Picking up two embellished combs she stabs them quite fiercely into place, securing the coil of hair to the top of her head. I cannot hide my reactionary wince, mindful to never allow her near my head when she is in such a state.

Grabbing several hairpins, she fashions fat curls with the remaining tail of hair, using the pins to affix them in a fan about the ornate comb. She begins to speak quietly, the stabbing of pins adding emphasis where her hushed voice does not.

"Bouchard, please go through your clothing and set out that appropriate for rough travel, probably on horseback. I know we purchased such clothing for you at Abrigaun's insistence. Look for the plain indigo-cloth shirts and heavy workmen's trousers, coarser than you are used to, I am sure. But it will be necessary, as we will not want to be recognized."

Aislyne raises a hand against my impending questions, continuing briskly. "You will need a bag small enough to carry with you. Pack it with such items as are absolutely necessary…a change of clothing, toiletries, and so on. I will have our travel papers, money, and naturally, my firearms."

I am by now fairly fizzing with curiosity, determined to pry this new mystery from Butler. Assuming a mildly wounded air, I cast a bit of pathos into my voice. "I am to do this without question? Do you not trust me enough to share what dictates the need for this…masquerade?"

Aislyne jumps up from the bench, and setting her hands upon my shoulders, leans down so that we are nearly nose to nose, and quietly declares, "Bouchard, I swear, if all this becomes necessary, _**you will know**_. I beg you…do this for me, because you trust _me_ enough. And…do it _**now**__…_ today. I wish only to be prepared."

Her face a mere breath from mine, she gazes fiercely into my eyes, seeking the rational, reasonable adult she expects to find there. And secretly moved by her vehemence, I cast my features into those of a man ill used, mumbling that I will do as she asks.

Voice low, she adds, "Please say nothing to Chanson. I will speak to him and Emanuel if need arises."

When this close, the faint tear tracks on Aislyne's face are most compelling; I cannot help but wonder what has her weeping, then willing to dash off across France incognito with her mad patient in tow. However, Aislyne is now done with our talk, and cupping my right cheek gently she sets one lingering kiss upon my forehead. Then excusing herself, she sweeps off to wash up in the bath, closing the door firmly behind her.

I am left to stew in curiosity and lust, replaying the feel of Aislyne's lips against my skin and the view of white, rounded flesh beneath her blouse, while ruminating over her troubling request with all its bedeviling mystery. And then there are the events of the morning…as yet unexplained to _me_…leaving her bitterly disappointed with someone…

Abrigaun? That thought, at least, pleases me.

Returning the chair to its place before the desk, I take a moment to glare at the contents of the waste can. I am struck by the words, '_I have given this missive, securely sealed…_' Why would it be important to _securely seal_ a letter that is naught but vapid chatter and gossip? Do the names of Lady Thériault's kitchen cats, lists of foodstuffs, and senseless anecdotes warrant such caution?

Why was the second page burned further than the first or third? Was this a contrived happenstance? I recall Aislyne's amusement… imperfectly hidden…at my brazen impertinence in reading Lady Thériault's letter. _'I vow you did not find much of interest…'_

Picking up the empty glass upon the desk, I find I am feeling more annoyed by the second. I close the door to her room behind me rather firmly when I leave.

Unreasonable as my irritation may be under the circumstances, I cannot help but feel I have been played the fool.

I sit on the divan across from a snoring Chanson, and brood, rolling over the entire conversation in my mind, attempting to formulate a sensible conclusion from damned little information.

In a most cowardly manner, I hid in the bath until I heard Bouchard leave my room, unwilling to face questions concerning either my request or the events of the morning…and most particularly, any regarding the dratted letter. I now realized I should have completely burned every page of the letter and newspaper sheets to ashes, as chances were Bouchard would see what I had done as a clumsy attempt at deception.

Could I not hear his voice in my head accusing me of just that?

Actually, it was the idea of the fire…the danger of doing so in the confines of the room without a proper grate…I simply could not bring myself to do it. The steam heating in the hotel meant there was no fireplace in the bedrooms, and I could not burn the papers in the fireplace in the main room with any privacy. How inconvenient the modern conveniences could be!

Of course the man had no right to go through my correspondence, discarded or not. But I was being truthful when I stated I would have done the same. Call it human nature…or call it infernal curiosity. It seemed we both possessed an appalling surfeit of it!

Upon viewing the state of my person in the well-lighted mirror cleverly hung above the washbasin, I nearly succumbed to a fit of the vapors. Tearstains ran down my cheeks, a broad swipe of dirt crossed my forehead, and my nails were filthy. My eyes were all but puffed shut, and near as red as my nose. I could be thankful for the subdued light at my dresser, as it meant I did not properly see my state of total dishevelment while attempting to browbeat and cozen Bouchard into doing my bidding.

Filling the basin with water from the tap, I soaked a washcloth and held it to my face, wishing the cool water could ease my humiliation as easily as it would the flush of embarrassment. Doubtless Bouchard had noticed every bit of grime, as well as signs of weeping…and had he not reacted just as any gentleman might, by ignoring it completely?

A gentleman…

Briskly I washed my face, and scrubbed my hands and nails. Looking into the mirror I was reassured I no longer looked as if I had spent the morning in lachrymal excess. My eyes remained swollen and even cool water could not diminish their bloodshot appearance. At the idea of exposing myself to the over-attentive eyes of Anna Gadreau I winced. No, that was out of the question!

I felt the need for solitude…time to recover my native composure. And upon leaving the bath I was relieved to find Bouchard had indeed closed the door out to the common room. I therefore took the opportunity to sit upon my bed and collect my thoughts, presently scattered in too many directions. Laying my hands, palm up, within each other I brought my breathing into a gentle, relaxed rhythm and sought the quiet, still place within…and instead found myself seeing again Jerrod Bouchard's face, his eyes warm with concern, his fingers twined with mine.

I heard Raoul de'Chagny's voice saying, "He is not…a monster…"

…and the mysterious fragmented conversation between Abrigaun and Jerrod Bouchard in the carriage betwixt Paris and Corbeil.

Nadir Kahn's relating the tale of the young 'Erik' in Persia…

…and the confession by Bouchard that he was responsible for the "cold blooded murder of Umbaldo Piangi."

Christine de'Chagny's assurance, "My Angel was just that, an angel, in every sense of the word…"

…and the madness in the man's eyes as he fought to keep his hands from my throat, his face twisted into that of an Angel of Death.

A monster…or a man? A gentleman…or the Angel of Death?

I thought again of Louise's translations of the farcical stories, each accompanied by ghoulish cartoons of an outrageously deformed de'Carpentier: emaciated and cadaver-like, with thinly stretched and ragged skin, missing lips, nose and hair. How could any of these, which reflected the accepted description of Erik de'Carpentier and the nobly formed Jerrod Bouchard be the same man?

And then there were Louise's revelations regarding Erik de'Carpentier, squeezed in tiny print between the lines of faded text on the newsprint. She had filled the very last page of newsprint nearly edge to edge in that same tiny hand, with unpublished details concerning de'Carpentier's home, told to her by her husband, Rudolph Thériault', Duc de Ventadour, over the past three years. As Inspector General for the Paris Prefecture of Police, her husband had unparalleled access to everything concerning the man who was Erik de'Carpentier.

It was two squadrons of Rudolph's best men who had filled the Opera Populaire one November night for the Grand Début Performance of 'Don Juan Triumphant' with the order to capture…or kill if necessary…the Opera Ghost. Having failed in the capture, Thériault remained involved in the year-long chase of the criminal now known as Erik de'Carpentier, who had brazenly remained in Paris, evading every trap and trick the Duc set to apprehend him.

Rudolph Thériault had personally visited the fantastical home below the Opera Populaire where the Opera Ghost had lived, sharing the details with his wife. And so Louise had shared them with me. Oh…I had read this page several times, and could nearly quote it word for word.

De'Carpentier had taken over the very lowest level of the opera house, its existence unknown to any except the original architect and the men who set the belowground footings. It was but an island of stone and steel-reinforced concrete centered in the wide concrete channel that carried an underground river between the massive footings for the opera house. In this unimaginable place, de'Carpentier had been able to construct his subterranean home, complete with iron portcullis across the only apparent access to it.

Built with the same stone used for the Populaire, de'Carpentier's home was elegantly proportioned, with electric lighting throughout, modern plumbing in both baths, a brace of bedrooms and a large and comfortable library with twin fireplaces at either end. It had a fully functional kitchen, and spacious dining room that looked out upon the shallow landing, cleverly harbored from the sharp spit of land that split the dark, swift waters of the lake at the front of his home.

Most notable was the 'concert hall' built in the shape of a wide four-sided wedge with a vaulted ceiling, the longest, curved wall being the very back wall of the house. Here he had completely reassembled a massive church organ, then designed and built an electrical motor to run the bellows.

Behind the house was a high concrete and iron wall, below which both river channels converged, the waters dangerously turbulent.

Louise wrote de'Carpentier's spacious bedroom served as his studio also, as dozens of filled canvases were stacked about the room, large technical drawings and life studies were fastened to the walls, with one entire wall papered in colored schematics of scenery and staging for many of the successful Populaire productions.

In a modest corner of this room was the man's bed…a wide, elevated box made in a very distinctive shape…that of the standard 17th century coffin. The box was not ornate, painted in flat black inside and out, and the bedding consisted of a hard wool-stuffed pallet covered neatly in cotton sheet and black wool blanket.

Despite his bizarre choice of bed, de'Carpentier had excellent taste, and expressed it in the elegant furnishings he chose for the rest of his home. A quartet of ruby satin Louis XVI bergère surrounded a Golle brass inlaid table in the dining room, and his oak library desk was made by Oeben. Matching Boulle inlaid commodes bracketed the Bellangé garnet satin settee in the parlour, with a six-octave Érard grand piano center stage.

The bedroom made for Christine Daae was furnished in an elegant cherrywood Louis-Phillipe suite commissioned by a noble de'Carpentier at least three generations back, from Jean Henri Riesener personally. Rumor held that the furniture had once occupied the bedroom of Erik de'Carpentier's mother.

And throughout the house, Erik had painted murals upon the stone walls, landscapes, seascapes, and in Christine's bedroom the ceiling was painted to accurately depict the evening sky, the walls that of a sun-drenched garden, with flitting butterflies and vast swaths of flowers. The concert hall's back wall was a mural of an audience sitting in rapt attention.

Yet it was in the library where I believe one would find true understanding of the man who had been the Opera Ghost, and the details Louise gave of this room are what intrigued me the most. Louise reported Rudolph had exclaimed that de'Carpentier's library "looked like the damned _Bibliothèque Mazarine!"_, which is France's oldest and largest library, a gross exaggeration, I'm sure.

There were thousands of books neatly shelved in the floor to ceiling bookcases that dominated Erik's library. Books on history, geography, philosophy and psychology were ranked neatly by subject, with an entire wall of those on world sciences, from Astronomy to Zoology. A collection of fine literature, Virgil to Zola kept company with stacked professional journals, and leather portfolios full of musical scores. And everywhere lie the evidence of de'Carpentier's restless attention…in the notes and observations he added in the book margins, or upon papers covered with his crabbed handwriting and quickly rendered sketches, shoved in between the pages. Open books lie about throughout the house, pen and paper at hand, as if the man felt the need to read and study at every moment…in the kitchen, his bath, and his bedside. This man had been a true scholar, with an avid curiosity that encompassed every facet of the world beyond his strange dwelling's walls.

Here was a man that I would wish to have met.

I knew what it meant to be driven by a hungry mind, always seeking the answer to the endless mysteries of the physical world. I did not place myself as being anywhere near de'Carpentier's genius, nor did I have the diversity of his interests, but for all that, I might have been able to hold up my end of a conversation with the man. Yes, I do believe I might have…and I could have learned so much!

Why did I feel such empathy for this poor man?

Which brought me back to the reason for Louise's letter, and her suspicion that Jerrod Bouchard might well be Erik de'Carpentier.

I shook my head; surely it was…impossible!

Oh, the evidence was there, as adamant in its conclusion as it was impossible for me to believe. Had not Bouchard admitted to murdering Umbaldo Piangi…a name unfamiliar to me until Louise's translations? Of course, the man would have been familiar with the Opera Ghost's history, and could have added this to his story for drama. But the de'Chagny's high-handed involvement in the disposition of the Opera Ghost's body was troubling; coincidences began stacking up rather high once the tale I had been given regarding Christine's 'uncle' was compared to the story of the Soprano Daae's abduction.

And yet…how could the man I knew as Jerrod Bouchard ever be physically described as he had been in several eyewitness accounts as being 'skeletal', 'hideously deformed', possessing 'a death's head for a face', and…my favorite…'having but a lipless maw, a hole in lieu of a nose, with only scattered bits of stringy, black hair upon his head'. I believe it was the last description that spoke of tufts of hair erupting at his temples and below his ears! And the former managers claimed the Opera Ghost had ruled the Opera Populaire for over 50 years, demanding a lion's share of any profit made during the theater's seasonal productions.

But Jerrod Bouchard stated he was 44 years, and I might have guessed him younger. His hair was deep auburn and baring one small area, thick and full; he was not hairless nor did hair grow in tufts about his head. Jerrod's skin was smooth and fair, his features complete and well fashioned aside from the terrible scarring on one side of his face.

Jerrod Bouchard did not in the least present as being so chronically malnourished as to be considered 'skeletal' nor so deformed that he could send a person into near cardiac arrest with fear by baring his face. And inmates of the State-run asylums did not normally put on weight!

I quite realized eyewitness accounts of any event were subjective and usually suffered from a profound lack of accuracy. I could even see Bouchard using a suitably horrid mask while doing mildly nefarious deeds. What I could not see him doing was wholesale murder! His temper was impressively short, and he excelled at the art of intimidation, but a murderer…oh, no…

I was left with the similarities that could not be explained away by overactive imagination: the day of execution, the de'Chagny's involvement with both men, a facility to mesmerize with the voice.

The bits and pieces of conversations that cast such a damning shadow over the man.

Somewhat frantic, I sought a conclusive reasonable doubt to resist thinking of Bouchard as being anything but a troublesome relative of the de'Chagny's…a misunderstood man…an abused child who had grown into a harmlessly eccentric man.

I could not…would not…think of him as the maniacal Opera Ghost!

Despite the fact Bouchard did not suffer from a shortage of intelligence, I saw no evidence of burgeoning genius. He was obviously well traveled, well read, and possessed a very flexible mind. One could even say he was clever and entertaining, with an appropriate sense of humor for a gentleman. But so far, the only superior talent he exhibited was music. I had known many people with a musical gift, and not one rated 'genius' status.

And Erik de'Carpentier had been a genius, by report and by discovery of the innovative engineering and architectural features found within his home, some of which have attracted scholars from the Paris École Polytechnique and throughout Europe for possible general application. A heating system that not only warmed the rooms of his house, but heated water for cooking and bathing. A gas-fuel 'fireplace' with realistic logs made of formed concrete. Electric lights throughout the house, generated by a pair of cleverly designed water turbines set in the fast-running river channels at either side of his house, one of which also ran the airpump for the massive Cavaillé-Coll pipe organ…that was yet another mind-boggling mystery in inself.

There were the mechanical wonders…gadgets and automons of such staggering simplicity, walking, moving…rolling…blinking. They seemed to be but toys, yet they were marvels of construction that offered insight into the mind of a man who had nothing but time to tinker and bend metal and gears to his devices.

Coincidence…it could only be that. Yet even as I assured myself for the tenth time, I vowed to stay alert for trouble, for any sign Bouchard and I needed to 'disappear' and seek safety in the anomity of traveling without our escorts. I was overwhelmed with the fierce determination to protect this man from whatever evil might be following us. I wanted him safe and I would allow no one to interfere with that.

Not even the Opera Ghost.


	37. Chapter Thirty Six

  
Chapter Thirty Six

When Bouchard asked me to join him for a quiet ride out on horseback, I hesitated just long enough to fan through the possibilities for the remainder of the afternoon. I decided being harassed by Bouchard held far more attraction than attempting to avoid Anna's critical eye, and turned to give him my assent…only to catch a strange look pass between he and Chanson.

Bouchard smoothly sent me toward my room, saying, "I will meet you here as soon as you are ready.

I choose my heavier habit, aware of a cooler feel to the air this afternoon, heralding the possibility of a wet evening. I refastened my hair, tied on a light scarf instead of hat, and pulled on my riding boots. One glance in the mirror assured me that my small nap and subsequent late lunch had revived the color in my cheeks, and cleared my eyes.

Bouchard was waiting by the fireplace, dressed in dark trousers and sack coat, gloves and a flat-topped sport cap in his hands. I had made a fuss when Abrigaun had picked that particular cap out for Bouchard…and I believe my misgivings were sound. I'd seen its like on those who followed the horseraces across England, and worn by a few of the dandy set here, in France. Nonetheless, once he had pulled it atop his head, it looked well enough, although I may be prejudiced.

Upon stepping from the back entrance to Le Corbusier, I could see Chanson and Xavier attempting to calm Aminta enough to set the saddle upon her broad back. Aminta was having none of it, thrusting her shoulder hard into Dietré, therefore moving them both further from a frustrated Xavier and the saddle. Aminta spied me halfway across the stable yard, and immediately began a rumbling, snorting litany of complaint, tossing her head and pinning her ears quite fiercely. Aware of Bouchard's censorious eye, I sternly demanded she stand once I'd pulled the lead from Chanson, and taking the saddle from Xavier's hands, set it upon the mare's back and bent to draw the girth. The bridle was fetched and Aminta meekly lowered her head to allow the bit past her teeth and headstall pulled over her ears. She stood quietly whilst I buckled the throatlatch and rechecked the girth. Having thus proved my mare to be a solid citizen, I bounced my chin in Bouchard's direction.

Chanson cast a dark look at Aminta, and shook his head. "That is no proper lady's mount, Mademoiselle!"

"Perhaps, Dietré. But she certainly suits me."

Chanson grunted and walked away, only to return leading a nondescript dun mare. Thom appeared at my side to aid me in ascending to my saddle, doing so with such vigor I nearly missed the saddle completely but for a firm hold on the pommel. Settling myself, I patted Thom's shoulder and breathlessly thanked him.

Chanson assumed a droll expression, remarking, "Mayhap you need a taller horse, Mademoiselle." Neatly putting himself in the saddle, he heeled his mare about, and it was then I noticed the blue-steel revolver he carried holstered at his hip. Coyly pointing my crop at his mount, I moved closer, eyeing the revolver patently. "Chanson, that is a very nice mare…I gather you will be riding with us?" Chanson nodded, saying nothing but looking quickly to Bouchard.

Upon pulling himself into the saddle, Bouchard's long coat swept aside, and the butt of a similar revolver was briefly visible holstered below his left arm.

The lowering certainty that my morning's ordeal was no longer a secret started a dull heat at my cheekbones. Nonetheless, I refused to allow anything to ruin this, perhaps the last ride we would share for a very long time. The thought of the narrow railcars, and the constant noise of the wheels upon iron tracks simply reinforced my wish to enjoy this afternoon completely.

Aminta, for all her fussing at the gentlemen, settled into a smooth, forward walk without a single jig or head toss, keeping next to Bouchard's gelding the entire distance through Lyon's cobbled streets. Wordlessly we headed for the open parkland that followed the River Saôen south from Lyon.

Chanson's dun showed far more fire than his last mount, and we took advantage of the low hedges and cleared deadfalls that littered the parkland, jumping them and cantering for quite a distance. I forgot the day's tribulations in the thrill of my mare's power as we sailed over fallen trees and hedgerows, and accelerated past the thundering John, his rider's ear-to-ear grin matching mine. It was a magical place, that framed betwixt my mare's forward-pricked ears, and I existed only in the moment…no troubling past, no worrying future.

Continuing along the double-tracked road south, I asked Aminta for a walk, which she gave after only the tiniest of hesitation, John sliding smoothly to a walk beside us. I could not help but laugh when I looked at Bouchard…his cap was gone, his hair swept wildly about.

"Bouchard…you have lost your lovely cap. And it was so…_distingué!"_

In answer he patted his pocket. "It is here. I decided it would not serve after the first flight of birds left cover and my foolish pony thought he too could fly!"

"Oh! I daresay that was exciting."

"I kept my saddle by virtue of shameless pride…I refuse to fall off while in the company of my lovely nanny." Pulling the cap from his pocket he doffed it prettily in my direction, then pulled it gracelessly upon his head.

Acknowledging his salute, I also gave a considering look to the foamy sweat marks upon John's broad, dark chest. "Perhaps we should moderate the remainder of our ride. I am not sure we should push so hard when both horses will soon be stalled for the duration of our trip." All we needed was to have one of them colic…what a nightmare that would be while on a moving boxcar!

Growling, "Mademoiselle, if I wanted to _**stroll**_ about the park, I would have left the horse at the hotel stable," Bouchard kept John to a sedate walk nonetheless.

"Then have a thought for yourself, Monsieur. It was just a day ago you admitted to feeling a tad 'saddle-worn'."

Bouchard's reaction to that was amusingly predictable. "I am tough; you need not worry for me, Madame Butler." He twisted about to cast a darkly arrogant smirk in my direction, but visibly winced when it involved far too many 'saddle' muscles.

"So I see!" I said, chortling. "Be that as it may, you might not feel so tough tonight when your three days of riding has its revenge on your backside!"

"I am not concerned, Mademoiselle. I have a nurse. I will merely request she…ah…soothe the sorest parts." His grin was positively fiendish.

I laughed helplessly, saying, "Bouchard, any decent woman would be offended. How lucky that you have _me_."

"Indeed, Mademoiselle. I thank God daily."

The thought of Bouchard on his knees beside his bed, hands steepled, whispering, _"…and thank you, Lord, for Madame Butler…_" was a compelling one. So much that I nearly missed Bouchard's next words…

"Mademoiselle, you do not read French."

Surprised at this turn in conversation, I gasped, "No!" At his startled look I added, "Nor speak it…as you have, no doubt, noticed. Why do you ask?"

Bouchard seemed to ponder John's ears for a moment, his expression puzzled. "I could not help but notice the newspapers…the articles…they were from French newspapers. Yet you do not read French…"

Ah, how well I knew that look of innocent inquiry, a façade for the sharply honed sense for intrigue or artifice of even the mildest sort. I reached across the distance between us to tap him lightly with the wide tip of my crop. "Out with it, Bouchard!"

Eyes wide, Bouchard's lone brow shot skyward. "I offered to read several of those same articles to you, and you expressed _no_ interest. I should be hurt, Mademoiselle!" One black-leather clad hand pressed firmly against his breast.

I could not help but laugh outright at his theatrics, then explained. "Louise sent along the articles unasked, my friend. She did include translations, which were written below the articles themselves…and I am sorry I ruined them, as she included several rather clever personal observations concerning the writers. One in particular…a Monsieur Leroux, quite bedeviled her husband, and wrote most unflattering articles concerning the Paris Police before de'Carpentier's capture."

Bouchard nodded, murmuring, "He was not overly kind in his descriptions of the Opera Ghost, as I remember."

"Well, despite descriptions of the man as a 'faceless fiend' and so forth, the Opera Ghost acquired quite a following in Paris after his début performance the night he murdered the male lead in the opera, and grabbed the…was it a dancer?" I shot a questioning look at Bouchard, feeling quite bold.

"It was a member of the chorus, a singer." Offered without the slightest reaction, Bouchard seemed slightly bored.

"Yes. It was Louise's thought I might not have been acquainted with the story because I do not read French, and that I would be interested. She felt Erik de'Carpentier would prove to be…as she put it, 'an _unforgettable icon in Paris' history_'."

"And the articles, for which she obviously felt such distain…these supported her thought that de'Carpentier was this 'unforgettable icon'?" Bouchard's lip all but curled. "I have read those articles, Madame, and they do not describe him as anything but a murderous, ill-behaved freak!"

"Oh…but Louise knew very well the newspapers fabricated a great deal of what was offered the public concerning de'Carpentier. In fact she shared with me details her husband had told her, which do paint a very different, and most fascinating picture of the man, making him no 'faceless monster'. Further, it seems his 'home' beneath the Opera Populaire is a marvel of engineering and construction, its rooms elegantly appointed, made comfortable and livable by clever inventions and modifications." I shot a look at Bouchard, and continued. "It was also obvious he was no Neanderthal with a penchant for frightening little girls, but a man who spent a great deal of his time in scholarly pursuits…albeit solitary ones."

Bouchard's reaction was disappointingly mild. "Pillow talk…the Achilles' heel to every state secret. I am shocked to hear even the _Duc_ falls prey to such chicanery."

"So…when I talk of Louise, you _do_ know of whom I speak."

Bouchard's smile had a definite sarcastic edge. "I am reclusive by nature, Butler, but I did not live under a rock. Of course I know…all of Paris knows of the dogged Inspector General and his crusading wife."

Rather chastened, I could merely say, "Oh."

"Besides which '_L. Thériault, __Duchess de Ventadour_, was prominently written upon the empty package on your desk. So…how does her husband feel about her elevating thoughts of a criminal he pursued throughout Paris for nearly a year?"

'Well…" I shrugged. "Louise thought de'Carpentier a very interesting and gifted man, and was most impressed by his inventions, many of which she has actually seen. However, she said she believed him also to be a murderous psychopath, who deserved exactly what he got. And, indeed…what else can my friend do but support her husband's belief de'Carpentier was responsible for the crimes laid upon him."

"Your friend is wise. And what is _your _opinion of the Opera Ghost?" Bouchard's gaze seemed to sharpen upon my face, his lips curved with wicked amusement.

I knew this question was inevitable, but was unsure how I should answer when Bouchard could conceivably be the very man of whom we spoke. Returning his gaze, I could only be honest. Taking a deep breath, I stated calmly, "I cannot help but think a terrible mistake was made the day France put that man to death."

Bouchard held out his arm to bring us both to a halt, his expression one of surprise. "That man being…Erik de'Carpentier? Are you…serious, Butler?"

Meeting Bouchard's gaze calmly, I nodded. "We have discussed this, do you not remember? I said then the newspapers were printing only the most sensational and outlandish rubbish about the man."

"And you do not believe he deserved the guillotine for his crimes?" Bouchard's expression was that of disbelieving fascination.

Unnerved by such avid attention, I snapped, "It is of no moment what I think, Monsieur; the man is dead." Sending my eyes forward, I squeezed Aminta back into a walk, but then could not help but add, "I thought we were agreed Erik de'Carpentier could not have done one tenth of that which was laid at his feet?"

Moving John neatly alongside, Bouchard shrugged. "Then was he not still guilty, even if of only one tenth of the crimes laid upon him? Consider it French justice, Butler. No doubt his conviction conveniently cleared many open cases for the Parisian police." The look of cynical amusement had returned.

"But…what if he was _**not**_? There was no proper investigation, no trial, and therefore no justice! It was nothing short of a witch-hunt, the mob mentality raging against what is not understood. Heavily fueled, might I add, by the absolute canard dished forth by the Parisian press!"

Seeing that Bouchard had at least dropped the smirk, I continued, using my crop handle for emphasis: "De'Carpentier may have been a murderous career criminal, I do not pretend to know better, although proof was either transparently contrived or circumstantial at best. What is undeniable is he was also a man of endless talent and untapped ability, a treasure France chose to discard in lieu of offering the man the most basic of human rights.

Why, do you know that Nikola Tesla visited the underground house twice, to look at several of de'Carpentier's electrical inventions, and became most enamored of the water turbines?"

At mention of the eccentric inventor, Bouchard grunted, saying, "Tesla is another who will end his days poor and alone. Genius can be a terrible burden."

I pinned Bouchard with a fierce eye. "How fortunate neither of us carries that burden, Monsieur!"

Bouchard merely laughed. "Do not sell yourself short, my dear Aislyne."

I was now remembering the many wonders Louise had written of…the well-appointed rooms and elegant layout of the 'house' built of stone, the electric lights and gas heat, the muraled walls and ceilings, including the 'audience' painted in loving detail on the concave back wall of the concert hall. And that one amazing room with its shelves floor to ceiling with books…

Nearly cooing, I said, "I would have loved to see de'Carpentier's library! Why, the man had an entire wall on the sciences alone…**an entire wall**! I would have sold my…_soul_ for that alone." _If I had one…_

I was aware my companion's expression had become a trifle wide-eyed. "Aislyne, my dear…this is unlike you." His voice contained that quality used to calm those who might soon become hysterical.

Tipping my chin, I demurred firmly. "Perhaps, Bouchard. Or perhaps this is exactly like me." I sighed, and patted my patient mare, seeking that necessary moment to clarify my thoughts. "I cannot say I know the full mind of Erik de'Carpentier, but I feel I do that part of the man who never stopped being a student, a scientist, inventor…a seeker of answers…that portion of the man I can say I understand quite well." I met Bouchard's wondering gaze, tapping the air between us with the crop butt. "A curious mind can be a demon, Bouchard. It has the power to drive one to…to…very strange and dark places." I stopped, straightening my gloves to cover my irrational lapse. Predictably, I flushed hotly.

For several minutes we seemed to have run the course of the topic. I fussed with my mare's mane, wishing I could be sure…absolutely sure… I was aware of my companion's gaze resting thoughtfully upon my person more than once. I patently avoided looking at anything but the path ahead.

"My dear Butler, why this sudden affection for a hideously afflicted man…a man whom you have never met?" Surprised at the gentle tone in his voice, I turned to face Bouchard, and found no amusement, no sarcasm in his intent gaze.

"Perhaps what I feel is not so much affection as it is…understanding. Quite frankly, I would have felt entirely at home in his dark, solitary world, because until I learned to…to hide everything I was, I, too, preferred the dark. I am not that different from him, I think. I have not murdered anyone, nor loved another person so that I would risk everything to keep them with me. But I imagine I would have, should I have been in his place."

I must have confounded my companion, as he turned to stare thoughtfully at his mount's ears, his expression unreadable. For several minutes we did not speak, a circumstance I could only welcome, as my clumsy confession had played hob with my emotional state. Expecting my lungs to begin seizing, I was surprised to note I felt nothing…except the slamming of my heart against my ribcage.

We rode for some time without speaking.

Eventually, Bouchard moved John close, and reached out to touch my hand. "Mademoiselle, I am sorry. Erik de'Carpentier should have been honored to have known you as well."

It took several minutes for the vast lump in my throat to subside. My only thought was how very little the man who had confessed his name was not Jerrod Bouchard, knew of his nurse-companion…

Reaching the wide turn that sent us around the outside edge of the parkland, and therefore back toward Lyon, I noted Chanson was now lost to view in the trees. "Why has Dietré chosen to ride such a distance behind, Bouchard? Are we such sad company then?"

Bouchard's expression sobered. "He is doing what he came along to do. And you know very well what that is, Aislyne."

"Oh." I fussed with my left glove, unwilling to continue the subject.

Of course, that did not mean Bouchard was of a similar mind. His voice deceptively mild, he said, "Did you think such an event would remain secret when half of the hotel witnessed your near-abduction?" Bouchard's hands flexed upon the reins. I was thankful I could not 'read' his feelings right then…

Sounding peevish even to myself, I countered, "Then you are aware I was able to fend off the drunken fools with ease. I do not require protection, Bouchard, nor do I need an armed escort in order to go for a ride. I am not helpless."

I was favored with one fierce glare, yet his voice was gentle. "You are dangerously overconfident, _Mademoiselle_. Plourde and Davies are cowards; the next time Abrigaun may send men who are not so easily intimidated by your bluff with a pistol."

Indignant, I snapped, "I assure you, _**Monsieur**_; it was no bluff. I _**would**_ have shot Plourde, and will do so whoever tries to molest me."

Bouchard's expression was skeptical. "You have shot a man before, Mademoiselle? It is not something easily done, even when he is most deserving."

For a moment I was rendered speechless at the idea Bouchard knew exactly of what he spoke. But of course he did…and I could only agree that it would be difficult… Having never actually shot anything but paper or wood targets…never anything _living_…I was suddenly assailed with doubts.

"And if it were Abrigaun himself, your passionate admirer…would you actually shoot _him_? I expect he will try next to take you…" Bouchard's eyes swept about as if expecting the lawyer to step from the bushes bordering the path.

I laughed, and informed my worrisome friend, "He has already tried…and failed, Bouchard, two days past."

Any thought of elaborating on that statement was lost in the loud cursing that erupted from Bouchard. Immediately John blocked my path, Bouchard clutching Aminta's noseband, staring at me as if I had just blasphemed in church.

There was no mistaking that I had now seriously upset Bouchard. I held up both hands in a conciliatory gesture, nearly losing my seat as consequence.

"_**When did this happen**_**? Did you ever think to tell **_**anyone**_…**tell Chanson, if you cannot find it **_**in your heart to trust me**_?" Bouchard was literally roaring; he released my mare's head only after she began sitting back to put distance between she and the Loud Man.

My hands were then full trying to keep terrified Aminta from planting me in the nearest tree. John had gone splay-legged, having dropped his back from beneath the roaring menace perched there, nearly dumping Bouchard. I found myself more worried about the man than myself.

After an endless minute of Aminta crow-hopping about, I was able to bring the mare back to her senses, although she pinned her ears and snapped at the large bay horse as if he were directly responsible for his rider's outburst.

"_**Bouchard, have a care**_!" Gritting my teeth, I moderated my tone, as my mare spun about, now seriously contemplating a fast return to the safety of her stall, with…or without me.

Eventually, I could only say, "I did not think it important."

The man's glare was glacial, the skin over his cheekbone and forehead were red with heat. "I am beginning to see just how…_thoughtless_…you are, Madame! What must happen to convince you that you are not…_**not**_…" Words apparently failing him, Bouchard turned away, patently attempting to calm both himself and the bug-eyed gelding he was astride.

I turned Aminta to walk her in a circle, taking the opportunity to talk myself out expressing umbrage over Bouchard's compulsive chivalry.

I did not want to argue with Bouchard, _not now_. "Please, let us not bicker over something that is past. I have been rebuked for my foolishness once today. I am too old to send behind the washhouse for a lashing, Bouchard."

Bouchard's expression was that of a man beset, eyes rolling. "Oh…that option is still under consideration, my dear!"

Exasperated, I continued, "I realize I need to…to practice reasonable care, considering recent events…and I promise I shall do so. Will you _please_ stop grinding your teeth and look at me with something less than murderous irritation?"

"Murderous perhaps towards your_…__**lover**_…" There was a dark look in his eyes I could not like.

I glared back, hissing, "I resent the implication, sir! I have done _**nothing**_ to encourage Abrigaun in his attempts to…to carry me away. **You**, however, have done nothing _**but**_ convince him I am in greatest peril of having my neck squeezed for no better reason than you…_dislike my age_! It is no _bloody_ wonder he feels he must rescue me!"

Making reference to our first five minutes in the carriage to Corbeil brought him up short. I allowed him a minute to fume whilst I…fumed. And, of course, I knew I could not win…because in too many ways, Bouchard was exactly right.

Eventually I held out my hand, attempting a conciliatory tone. "I am requesting we drop this. What happened this morning _**shall not**_ happen again. I will remain glued to Chanson…Xavier…and you, at all times when outside the confines of our suite. I give you my word, Bouchard!"

Bouchard narrowed his eyes, but his expression assumed a shadow of satisfaction with my concession. "Aislyne Butler, I am once again convinced the only way I can save you from yourself is to throttle you."

And I laughed…his statement was so illogical, yet it made perfect sense, all things considered. I smiled at him, and patted my heavy skirt over my right thigh, where my Sheffield Six lay heavily in its holster. "I would much rather that, than being forced to shoot you, my dear Bouchard."

After a moment, Bouchard moved John close, and reaching for my hand, gently removed my glove and kissed my knuckles. "Consider the subject closed, Butler." Anything further he might have said stalled noticeably behind his lips once our eyes met. I dropped mine after the briefest moment, ashamed of the overwhelming urge to dismount and pull him from his gelding's back and…

A cough sounded from behind us; Chanson had stopped his mare but a few yards from where Bouchard and I were, yet again, stalled. His expression revealed he had heard enough of the last few minutes of our conversation to be thoroughly confused…or disgusted. "Would you like me to keep moving so that you may continue your…discussion? I am of a mind to return to the hotel before the kitchen closes for the night."

Since hours of daylight remained, his sarcasm was unmistakable.

I needed to clear my throat before speaking. "I do suppose I should be helping Anna with preparations for the move back to the railcars. Having said it, I silently cursed the idea, as returning to the hotel suite was the very last thing I wished to do. Nonetheless, releasing Bouchard's hand, I pulled on my glove, and sent Aminta into a forward walk.

Bouchard and I rode side by side for the remainder of the outing, speaking seldom, yet it felt a most companionable silence. There were no further arguments.

I spend the evening at the piano, fiddling with a piece I started several months ago while still locked in a small cell at the Rois. I weigh several tempo patterns, changing the note values, shifting between _lento_ to _andante_ to _allegro and back, _without really giving the music more than half my attention.

Chanson sits with Xavier playing cards, while Anna folds freshly ironed bed linens and bath towels with Aislyne's help. Emanuel sits in a chair by the card players, adding items to a list dictated by Aislyne. This homey scene contrasts greatly with that I knew when last I ran through these particular notes. I close my eyes and repeat the mantra, "_I am a man, and I live_…"

Upon opening my eyes I catch Aislyne's eye upon me, her expression anything but enigmatic. There is concern, a decided warmth. And fear... '_Do you fear for me…or for you, my dear Aislyne?'_ For an instant our eyes lock, and it is as a physical touch, a sensation I find as startling as it is pleasant.

"_I am a man, and I love_…"

Aislyne drops her eyes first, sweeping a wrist across her forehead, in effect, hiding. She has noticed that Anna is watching her, and Anna's expression is troubled.

I bend to the piano, ostensively to make a change in the notes upon the sheet I have before me, but I return Aislyne's next inevitable look with a wink.

Anna frowns. Aislyne's expression becomes sober save for one rogue dimple.

Despite the engaging byplay with Madame Butler, and the habitual pull of the sheet of notes before me, I cannot help but revisit in my thoughts Aislyne's remarkable defense of Erik de'Carpentier. I suffer a most singular pang of jealousy remembering her regret at his death…the fierce defense against his myriad accusers. And her breathless recount of the wonders of the house in the fifth basement of the Opera Populaire…why, her expression was nearly lustful when describing the library…

And that she could compare herself to the man who lived for so many years in hiding, convinced his countenance could only evoke scorn and hysteria, was disturbing. I wished to ask her what could possibly make her feel so about herself…but could not. I realize she sees herself as deeply flawed…but I cannot ask her what this would be. Who am I to question her in such fashion? Like me, her past is her own…

Atop the piano sits my completed gift to Christine and her new child…the book of cradle songs. Aislyne has written a most reasonable epistle requesting the bo…ah, the Vicomte consider it reparation for my sins against Christine.

Reaching for it, I open it to the last page, the simple words and melody making it more hymn than lullaby. Looking across the room, I find Butler's eyes, and then begin to play this, singing full voice my message to Christine: A Father's Prayer:

"A Father' prayer is simple,

he asks for simple things.

And every day he sings it in his heart…

"May you smile, may you smile

May your happiness illuminate each mile.

Down each path that Life presents you, all the while.

This I pray.

"May you love, may you love!

May your heart know all the blessings found thereof.

The greatest joy you will ever know is sharing love.

This I pray.

"**May you sing! May you sing!**

Such a gift that God has given must surely ring.

This above all others is the thing!

This I pray.

"A Father' prayer is simple,

he asks for simple things.

And every day he sings it in his heart…

OoOoOo

"_I am a man, and I live_…"


	38. Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Seven

They found the books in the barn hayloft, carefully stowed within a stout canvas feed bag, lightly covered with hay. It was a known fact I liked to read up in the hayloft.

Unaware of the storm breaking over my foolish head, I was absorbed in performing my favorite weekly task dusting Mam's 'Imari' pattern china, lovingly displayed on high shelves in the dining room. At the age of 11, I was already hideously tall, and well able to reach even the highest platters securely. Passing each piece through my towel-covered hand gave me a feeling of closeness to my mother, thinking the bright colors and exotic pattern mirrored her personality. The red of the pattern matched her hair perfectly.

The sound of heavy boots on the stone-floored hall and the strong _feel_ of threatening, malignant purpose turned me toward the door even before my father appeared in the wide doorway. Immediately behind him shuffled a smug Father Graves, leaning heavily upon his cane, and the two Graybeal boys, both wearing their usual asinine grins.

Father dropped the canvas bag gently at my feet, his face white with shock and controlled anger. I felt the fragile teacup slip from my fingers, forever consigning one delicate china teaplate to exile behind the teapot, pariah as it would forever be without its mate.

Unable to speak…to utter a sound…I knew there were no words to expiate the crime, no excuse, no mitigating circumstances. I had broken into church property during the priest's absence. I had then taken books that were not only considered beyond my intellectual reach, but some of which were outside of the Catholic Church's doctrine. Within the bag were '_Areopagitica' _by John Milton, and_ 'Religio Medici'_ by Sir Thomas Browne, both forbidden by the Papal 'Index Librorum Prohibitorum'. There was also a travelogue by Lawrence Stern, and a novel by the early feminist, Mary Wollstonecraft.

Damning materials, nearly every one.

I would later find some comfort in knowing they had no idea how often I had committed this crime.

For months after the priest's attack, I had found my thoughts increasingly upon the rectory's library, and books filling its shelves…dusty and unread…far beyond the meager offerings of dogeared novels and outdated penny periodicals I was allowed from the village reading room. I became increasingly daring as the months passed and memory faded, walking round instead of past the building on days when I knew Graves was gone, and the sisters well occupied in the school building.

Careful investigation revealed the library possessed a recessed back entrance, a modest solid oak door nearly hidden beneath thick swags of the pernicious ivy that covered the south wall of the building. Surreptitious examination found it was kept latched but not bolted.

And so one moonless summer night I walked the mile and a half to the rectory, just as I had done nearly every morning in all my years attending the parish school. I traveled the path edging the fast-running stream that divided our northern pastures, all the way to the northern border of our land. The stream and path continued, the path rising upon a ridge, across 'open' ground for another half-mile, toward the village of Ballinhassig, until the waterway twisted to the west, going around the church grounds. The path flattened and continued straight, passing between the low stone rectory and the matching chapter house, which sat before the timber and tabby school buildings. Dominating the village skyline straight ahead were the modest twin spires of the Church of Saint Doimthech, the stone walled convent beside it.

My goal was of course the rectory, which was first off the path.

After spending several minutes insuring the library was dark, and that no one was walking about to see me, I inserted a slim piece of tin scrap in the crack betwixt frame and oaken door, and scooting it upward neatly raised the latch. Slipping into the dark library, I lit my small candle with a safety match, careful to shield the light from the library's long bank of windows. After again listening hard to assure myself that I was alone in the rectory, I chose several books, memorizing their positions among the shelves, and placed them with due reverence into the canvas grain bag I carried over my shoulder.

Relatching the door was simply done using a piece of twine looped over the bar, pulling it down until it dropped into the loop and then withdrawing the string.

I was in the rectory for less than a quarter hour by my reckoning. The entire time my heart had pounded so loudly within my scrawny chest, I would have been deaf to any but the most earsplitting of declamations; several times I had felt near to swoon.

Even as I slunk home with my ill-gotten prizes, I grew sick thinking of the return visit, necessary to return the books. However, as the distance betwixt the scene of the crime and criminal increased, I was able to rationalize away my fears. If I had to enter the library again anyway, there was a speculative fiction by John Wilkins I wished particularly to read, as well as both '_The Economy of Vegetation'_ and '_Zoonomia' _by Erasmus Darwin…books I had decided against due to weight and space concerns.

Whilst thinking of the books I had found it necessary to leave behind, any cravenly thoughts of making this trip my last dissipated like smoke in a gale. I would, in fact, find it difficult to make those few weighty tomes I had last for the entire fortnight, and to discipline myself in the number of books I could safely take from the library at each trip.

I thereafter scheduled my visits to the rectory library on the Saturday during Graves' bimonthly two-day circuit throughout the county, weather permitting, leaving the house long after my parents had sought their bed and blown out the bedside candle. Since I frequently left my bed in the wee hours of the night, Beyvin, with whom I shared it, found it of no concern.

Being out late at night was nothing new as I had spent many nights watching the changing moon on her voyage across the night sky. I was familiar with the sounds of the night creatures, hunter and hunted, and knew the feel of each of the seasons, experienced by moonlight or moon-dark. My vision adjusted well to the night to a preternatural degree, and my other senses seemed heightened as well.

The fields and copsewood surrounding the estate house were as familiar to me as my own skin. I was not afraid.

It lasted for over a year. I was rapturously happy, invigorated by the new visions and concepts found within those dusty texts. My mind engaged, I seldom registered the normal carping animadversions of the internal chorus, and barring my weekly walkout on the priest, even my days in class were more harmonious.

It was the Graybeal boys who tipped Father Graves to my illicit entry of the library. While out hunting mice to throw live to their fighting cockerels, they noticed someone walking on the ridge quite boldly in the moonlight, passing their small, smelly farm. Curious, they followed and watched as I entered and soon thereafter exited through the rectory's library door.

They professed to have known immediately who the intruder was, and I do not doubt it as I had become terribly complaisant over the long months without event or challenge. I no longer felt the need to wear concealing clothing or even a kertch over my head.

The next morning at early mass I noticed their particularly gleeful grins in my direction, but gave it no thought. The Graybeal boys, Keith and Devin, had long been an affliction to the younger generation of the Butler tribe, and both had lately turned their concentrated attentions in my direction. I was the only Butler who presently attended the parish school, and was therefore easy prey, as I passed their farm each day.

My daily walk home from school was occasionally a panicked footrace for the first half-mile that I had, so far, won.

It was the eldest boy, Keith Graybeal, who terrified me, being 18 years and a large, spotty-faced bully, who still hung around the schoolyard as his cronies were all still attending. He had recently suffered a decisive set down when he chose to blatherskite my brother Caley, who at 17 was the taller and fitter man. Keith had happened onto the same pub on the same night. Coming up from behind, Graybeal shoved Caley's face into his mug of beer, and a very brief _còmhraig_ ensued.

The younger Graybeal, Devin, sat in my class and was a frequent dispenser of spitwads and spite in my direction.

Their father, Ronald Graybeal had accused my father of being a 'godless Scottish thug'…publicly and often. He had lately become doubly offensive when Da refused to punish Caley for violently and decisively administering rough justice for the eldest Graybeal boy's unprovoked attack.

Granny Graybeal was a crony of Granny Muldoon, subscribing to the old _bana-bhuidseach's_ view of my father, and by extension, of me.

It was no surprise my accusers were from that family. But I could not feel ill used under the circumstances.

Keith Graybeal now appeared very pleased with himself, albeit still staying warily behind the priest's solid form. Devin was looking at the colorful china shards at my feet, his mouth a perfect 'O' of gratified surprise.

Father Graves spoke, his voice oily with counterfeit concern. "The girl will come with me. She needs godly counsel concerning her actions and the affect they will have to her immortal soul." With a smile that showed every pointed tooth in his head, he glued his flat, shallow eyes upon me. I stared, aghast, as he licked his lips with a forked tongue black as coal.

Gasping, I flew to my father, and wrapped his arm in both of mine. "No…no. Da…I n-never stole the books…I just wanted to r-read them. To _b-borrow_ them. I was going to return them…"

Graves chuckled, poking at me with one bony-knuckled finger. "And how would you do that, but by breaking into the rectory yet again! You, my dear child, are no better than a common thief. Butler, I must demand she come with me!"

My father's brow dropped, and he cut a sharp glance at the priest. "I would talk to my daughter before she speaks to anyone. I will then decide what is to be done."

Graves' eyes bulged at this blatant stab at his authority; hissing, he moved to step around my father within range for another grab at me, declaring loudly, "This child is obviously led astray by desires unnatural for a female of her years. Why, I am certain she is possessed by the ungodly, and will surely harm the other children of your house. I _**must**_ ask that you reconsider, Butler. Let me have her…I would examine her for the insidious signs of demonic inhabitation." He thrust his face at me, grinning, the black forks of his tongue busily investigating the openings between pointed teeth.

Wailing, I threw myself further behind my father, away from the priest's leering face. Could my father not see the malignancy that the priest exuded, the true demon that he was?

Instead, my father turned to me, asking, "Why are you acting this way, _mo nighean_? I have never seen you so. I will hear what you have to say for yourself, but you must cease acting as if Father Graves is the devil himself!"

Patently shaking with terror at the priest's eye rolling, grinning visage, I stuttered, "Da…_p-please_. Do not let him take me. _**Please**_…?" Overwhelmed with panic, I pressed myself against my father's side, putting the barrier of his body betwixt me and the hideous form of Father Graves.

"Mmphmm." Turning back to the priest, my father firmly pushed him back, moving to block him from where I cowered at his other side. "My daughter will talk to me before she does anyone, Father Graves. I will ask you and the Graybeals show yourselves out." In the face of my father's polite obduracy, the priest offered no further argument.

With that my father grasped me by the shoulders and marched me past the stone-faced priest, and the slack-jawed Graybeals. I did not look at them, but allowed myself to be compelled forward, until safely sequestered in the estate office, a closed door shielding me from the infernal eye of Father Graves.

My father pushed me into a chair, handed me his handkerchief, and moved to stand behind his desk to watch as the ill-humored trio at length left the house, mounted the ponycart and rattled down the long lane that would take them eventually to their respective domus. After several minutes I was able to stop simultaneously hiccupping, shaking and convulsively sobbing. Still frightened…and very ashamed, I looked to my father, who was now sitting behind his desk, his eyes soft upon my wretched face, but expression troubled.

Dropping my eyes, I gulped, and stuttered, "I am s-so sorry, Da. I c-cannot tell you how sorry. The books…I s-saw so many on the…the d-day I was chosen to clean the r-rectory library, and I just…could not get them out of my m-mind." I sat up straight in the chair and firmed my chin, meeting my father's gaze. I did not fear my father.

"Books, mmphm?" Father's expression was not impressed.

Stung at the perceived disparagement, I stoutly declared, " And n-nobody ever reads them, Da. Why, there are h-h-hundreds of books…every one of the S-Shandy novels, and the biography of Marco Polo and travel diaries for Egypt, the Orient and Africa. And even Samuel Johnson's 'Dictionary of the English Language'! And…they do naught but gather dust, and grow mildew because the library is damp. It is a waste…such a terrible waste."

"Aislyne, they were not yours. Waste or not, you had no right entering that library and taking those books." Leaning forward, my father scowled fiercely, lips tight…but I had caught the slight twitch he suppressed at my reverent description of the wonders to be found in the rectory library.

I knew he would not allow the priest near me…he would protect me. The relief melted the block of ice that had taken residence within my chest. Springing from my chair, I flew to him, slipping down to kneel at his feet, hiding my face against his knee. "_Athair, tha mi duilich!_ I am so ashamed. I knew it was wrong…but I told myself it was right because…because they were books…and _**nobody**_ cared about them."

"You know better, _mo __pollairean_. I know you do." His voice was warm and gentle, his hands upon my shoulders a comfort. The wonder of this roused my shame and set the voices to howling. "You must beat me, Da, so that Graybeal cannot say you are godless. I want you to beat me."

_And drive out the voices that drive me to think of such things…_

He raised my face from his knees, his large, warm hands firmly wrapped about my face, temple to jaw. "I do not concern myself with what Ronald Graybeal thinks of me, _mo nighean_. But you will be punished, I promise you that."

I could only nod my head, rendered speechless again by hiccups.

"No, I think a month of laundry duty and whatever your mother thinks appropriate should serve."

I hated laundry, hated the way my hands cracked and blistered from the hot water and lye soap, the smell of which still bore unhappy associations for me. But at this point, anything was preferable to facing Father Graves alone…to being in his control. Anything…

"Yes, Da…I will do so with true penitence in my heart."

"You are a canny child, wee Aislyne. But now you must tell me why you are so greatly frightened of Father Graves."

Looking up at his words, I found my father's expression unfathomable. I dropped my face and shivered. "He scares me, Da. When he looks at me, it is as if I am made of his favorite sweet, and he would…would eat me if he could. And he hates me for knowing it." I waited for my father's anger at my words, and the blatant insinuation thereof.

Instead he laid his hand upon my head. "That is an interesting description, Aislyne." I looked up at his words, to see his eyes narrowed in thought, his jaw set.

"Da…you…you will not make me go to him, then." My father's hands dropped to my shoulders, and his eyes again rested warm upon my face.

"No, I will not. You will not be sent to the priest." Pulling me to my feet, my father kissed me upon the forehead. "Now go present yourself to your mother. She will be walking a hole in the parlour carpet with worry. You are on your own concerning her teacup, but she knows there were extenuating circumstances…even if they were of your own making."

We exchanged solemn nods, and I turned to face my mother's heartbreak over her cherished teacup.

I mourned the books briefly, seeing they had been removed, presumably for return to the rectory library.

I was, however, so very glad it was over.

My father pulled me up behind him on his riding stallion, Draoidh, where I would ride 'aside' as was proper, with one arm holding tightly to my father's waist, and the other to the saddle's edge beneath me. The stallion's barrel and flank were toasty on the backs of my legs through my woolen skirt, and the warm horsy scent of my father's riding coat soothed my rattled senses. Grateful for my father's decision to spare me the long walk, I gave myself to the pleasure of the stallion's smooth trot as we gently bumped along the ridge path. Riding to school did not occur often, but whenever my father needed to go into the village, he would delay so that I could ride with him. I did think, however, that this morning he had trumped up an occasion so as to bring me to school.

I spent the entire night sitting in the heavy rocker in our room, so as not to keep Beyvin awake with my restlessness. The internal chorus was in full throat, having prognosticated humiliation and abject wretchedness all night, making sleep impossible until long after moonset. It was fitting the weather should reflect my mood, the lowering sky and chilly breeze bearing the promise of an increasingly cold day. My spirits sank further as the unmistakable stink of sheep and dirty, unkempt pens assailed my nose; the Graybeal farm would soon be within sight, now hidden behind an overgrown scrubby tree line. Saint Doimthech's roofline loomed ahead, those of rectory, chapterhouse and schoolhouse soon bobbing into view.

My father rode up to the schoolyard's edge wherein I carefully dismounted, knees together and skirts held while I slid down Draoidh's flank. I quickly shook down my skirt and straightened my cloak, avoiding the moment when I must look up and see who awaited me at the school door.

I was surprised when my father dismounted too, and first pressing me to his chest to set a kiss upon my crown, he placed his large warm hands upon my shoulders, and somberly looked down into my face. "Today will not be easy, _mo nighean_, as I am sure the sisters are aware of what you have done, as well as the other students. I ask that you comport yourself with grace and restraint, and accept their chastisement as your due."

"Yes, Da." I dropped my eyes, suddenly shy of my father's attention, my nerves stretching to a fine, internal hum.

"Aislyne, I believe your mother is right, and I have given you the idea you are special, elevated above others. Although it is true you have an uncanny mind, and understanding far beyond your years, you are also subject to the constraints of right and wrong, as are we all. You are still a child, and must respect your elders, and follow our guidance in all things. You may have forgotten that."

I absorbed the sting of his words…or rather my mother's accusation…trying hard to implement 'grace and restraint'. Nodding, my father gave my shoulders a tiny shake. "Consider today a lesson in humility. If it was indeed prideful thinking that compelled you to pull such a stunt as breaking into the rectory, then you must humble yourself before the criticism you will doubtless soon receive from both teachers and fellow students."

Gulping, I again stuttered, "Y-yes Da."

He twisted me about to face the school, where now several of those 'fellow students' including the hateful Devin Graybeal stood watching me from the wide school entry.

"_Siuthadaibh, pisaeg_!" (On you go, kitten.) With a tiny push, I was propelled toward my waiting Golgotha, and my father swung himself upon his stallion's back, and cantered off towards the village proper.

As it was the first day of the school week, there would be no class given by Father Graves and I need not see him, nor would it be necessary to walk out of the classroom when he entered. I took a great deal of comfort in this fact.

The subtle scorn and open ridicule from the other children attending school did not penetrate my shell of 'restraint'. I respectfully…and gracefully…dropped my eyes from the censorious glares of the teaching sisters.

Sister Boniface asked me to lead the Morning Prayer, something that had never happened, in all my years attending the parish school. I rose and walked to the front of the class, picked up the heavy brass crucifix with its eternally agonized Jesus, and began the '_Pater Noster'_. Few students joined me, and alone, I finished it. I began, "_Ave Maria, __gratia plena_…" without another voice to be heard. I finished with the daily benediction, "Dear Lord, open my eyes to your wonders, my ears to your words, and my heart to your love. Amen." Silence.

I looked to the Sister for further instructions. She stood looking out over the class, quite obviously ignoring me. I turned to replace the heavy crucifix on its stand, and Sister Boniface growled, "No. You will stand before the class and hold that until I say otherwise."

I resumed the position before the class, stiffening my spine and my resolve, the words 'restraint', 'grace', and 'respect' in my father's voice repeating over and over in my mind.

I did not know which was worse: those who openly vilified and abused me for my apparent contempt for my betters, or those few who chose to see what I had done as a laudable…nay, a _**heroic**_ act of sheer bravado. It was, after all, generally known why Father Graves was also called 'Handy Graves' behind his back. Anecdotes concerning the cousin, the neighbor's lad, or that family who moved away with their suddenly ill daughter were common. Naturally, nobody admitted to having it happen to _**them**_. But it happened, and we all knew it, some of us more than others…

And I had broken into this fiend's library, which had to be the most common scene of his iniquity by virtue of its need for frequent dusting by the parish youngsters…and those damnable locking doors.

It was during the morning water break that I learned of this contrary view of my misconduct. While leaning against the single small tree allowed on the school grounds, striving for invisibility, I was poked gently from behind. Expecting the worst, I spun about with fists ready, and the young man's startled expression spoke volumes regarding the snarl on mine.

He held up both hands quickly saying, "Hey, I mean no harm."

After a moment's reflection I realized he was not a threat, and knew him as Jimmy O'Connell, one of the older lads who were in their last year of parish school.

Naturally I was suspicious, and remained watchful, even as he told me there were some who admired my 'bravery' and were vastly impressed a girl would undertake such a profoundly risky endeavor. Having said all that, he wished only to ask me, "Why did you want to go in there? I mean, if you wished to kill the old pervert, why would you break in when everybody knew he was gone?"

Startled at the thought of killing anybody, I quickly assured him, "Oh, no…I never wished to kill him! I knew he was gone."

Jimmy's eyebrows waggled as he absorbed this new fact. They met again over his nose, as he asked, "But then why would you want in there?"

"Well, it is a library, Jimmy. I wanted to read some of the books…that are in the library."

Sighing, he shook his head. "You really are a very strange girl, Butler." Stepping backward, he slipped behind the school building, to avoid being seen leaving my vicinity.

It was during the midday meal when Father Graves appeared at the doorway to the classroom, directing the sister to clear the room of all, "but that Butler chit". I had just retrieved my lunch pail, having hid it behind my cloak instead of placing it on the shelves as customary, fearing my food would be tampered with in some disgusting manner. Slamming the lid back down, I stood and whirled to face the priest. Speaking firmly, but keeping my tone as even as I could in the face of rising terror, I said, "My father says I am not to be questioned by you outside of his presence, nor am I to be alone with you at any time."

Father Graves' face flushed hotly, and growling at Sister Boniface, he repeated, "Clear the room, but you will stay." Stricken with fear, I simply stood as many of the other students filed out, but several of the boys lingered, for differing reasons. One of them was Jimmy O'Connell, and two others came to stand by him, whispering, their eyes troubled.

Devin Graybeal sat unmoving back by the large room's entry, eyes shining, taking everything in.

I raised my voice. "I cannot say anything to you without my father here."

I found myself clutching the pail to my chest, and looked longingly to where my cloak hung among the row of pegs across the room. I wanted to leave, but my father's words kept repeating, _"Consider today a lesson in humility."_

Shakily, I gathered what little fortitude I had, and clearing my throat of my heart, I said, "Father Graves, I realize I committed a sinful act when I…I broke into the rectory library. I can only ask that you forgive me, and I will pray to the Almighty daily for…forgiveness." I assumed a most humble posture, hands still clenched upon the pail. My words seemed to have frozen all in the room, and only the priest's loud breathing was audible.

His voice was a whipcrack in the quiet room. **"Get out! All of you…OUT!"**

Startled, I looked up to see Father Graves shuffling up the center aisle, his cane gripped high above his head as if a club, face red with rage. Sister Boniface grabbed at him…but he turned to viciously shove her backward into a row of benches and desks. "**Bitch, I told you…GET OUT!**"

Graves then turned back to find me frozen like a rabbit, still standing at my desk. His mouth opened to pour forth language of the vilest sort, calling me wicked names, and vowing to rain such abuses upon me as would surely kill me. Moving awkwardly, one foot still unable to bear his weight, he lumbered up the center aisle. There was absolutely no doubt who he sought.

I dropped my lunch pail and stumbled across the untidy row of benches, away from the path of the mad Graves, and upon reaching the end, headed for the schoolhouse entry, praying I could outrun his reach. My path clear, I pulled up my skirts and ran. A quick glance assured me the priest would never catch me, despite being much closer to the doorway.

A stride from the door, and my legs were swept from beneath me. I hit the floor hard, on elbows and chest, skidding completely over the rough threshold of the doorway onto the worn wooden step outside. Immediately hands grabbed at my jumper; someone bent over me, laughing, attempting to hold me down. My reaction was instinctive; I rolled away and kicked as hard as I could in their direction, connecting hard enough to illicit a scream of pain. Scrambling to my feet, I turned to see it was Devin Graybeal, his leg canted strangely. He was staring down, and his mouth open, shrieking in pain.

Graves roared incoherently upon seeing me back on my feet. Shaking so hard I could hardly stand, I staggered across the schoolyard and headed for home.

I demand feedback. Oh, yes! I do!


	39. Chapter Thirty Eight

For some reason, even when I put several open spaces, as well as 'lines' to delineate a change in point of view or time, etc….THEY DON'T SHOW UP. I am verklempt!

Dotdotdotdotdotdotdot…heh! (lol)~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Chapter Thirty Eight**

The sun broke the horizon on Sunday morning wearing a nimbus of fiery color, throwing stripes of crimson, amber and gold across the bellies of the remaining dark-edged clouds. Somewhere in the wee hours the low growl of thunder had briefly pulled me from my restless slumber, only to send me back with the soothing patter of rain against the windows.

Pulling open the drapery before the large window facing Rue St. Jean, I finished my tea and toast, whilst sitting within the warm golden light, attempting to merely enjoy the moment instead of succumbing to panicked inventory of all to be accomplished this day. The streets outside were still wet from the storm, the trees and storefront awnings dripping, making umbrellas needful for the early morning foot traffic along the boulevard.

I found myself scanning the street, the sense of covert threat momentarily overwhelming. Cursing an overactive imagination, I left the window to refresh my cooling tea. This is what came of inadequate sleep and nerves. This is what came of making a fool of yourself over a patient…

I had awakened early…far too early, wrenched from sleep after a particularly disturbing dream fraught with helpless immobility in the face of unseen threat. Such a nightmare was not surprising after half the night spent in a sleepless fret over the message in Louise' letter. The inner chorus was particularly shrill, no doubt fueled by the flutter in my breast whenever my thoughts rested upon Bouchard.

The warning within Louise's letter had gnawed relentlessly at my peace of mind all day; the feeling of impending catastrophe growing larger as the hours passed. I was acutely mindful of the time passed since the Opera Ghost's demise…eleven days wherein two strangers seeking Erik de'Carpentier could have followed the slim trail left by the departure of the de'Chagny's 'uncle' for Italy. Had those involved in our flight from Paris insured our tracks were well covered?

Once sequestered in my room, I cleaned and inspected my pistols, reloading the Sheffield and placing it upon my nightstand. I reminded Emanuel to insure the doors were securely locked. Finally, I repacked the leather saddlebags I had chosen to contain the few things I thought necessary should we need to abandon the rest of our party…and prayed it would all prove unnecessary.

Somewhere in the midst of my tossing and turning I had finally fallen asleep, reassured by the masculine voices outside my door.

Last night, I had Emanuel list those things to be bought, sought or rechecked as I helped Anna fold and stack into baskets the freshly washed bed and bath linen…which smelled wonderful, eliciting the scent of the country field where it had been washed and dried in the sun. As much as I had hated doing laundry as a child, the scent of sun-dried bed linen was always a secret pleasure.

All members of our party had taken advantage of the services of the contract laundress recommended by the hotel as well; Bouchard was not happy with the result. Two of his fine lawn shirts had ripped seams where before there had been none, and the pressing of his two well-fitting suits did not meet his standards. I mended both shirts, wishing we had found a tailor or seamstress to refit more of his clothing, but it was impossible in the short time we'd had in Lyon.

Despite his displeasure with the laundress', he had been in good spirits last evening, regaling us with music, and watching me shamelessly so that Anna clucked constantly like a peevish hen.

I had chosen to retire long before Chanson and Xavier left for their quarters, feeling unable to deal with Anna's watchful eye. Bouchard kissed my hand goodnight, lingering overlong if I interpreted Anna's muttering correctly. He shot a look of sheer deviltry in her direction, and then joined Dietré, Emanuel, and Thom at the table for a late evening of cards, wine and foul-smelling cigars. I vow I heard them playing far into the night, saying things to one another in their mother tongue I am sure are best left without translation. Their excitement was palpable and perhaps contagious; I felt it too, although perhaps manifest more as burgeoning anxiety than high spirits.

This morning most of our party were arrayed in various attitudes of pained consciousness upon the divans before the cold fireplace. Dietré and Thom sat awaiting their charges for the day upon one; Chanson held a cup in one hand and his head in the other. Thom, having apparently sought his bed much earlier than his elders, was cheerful although he, too listed sleepily against the divan arm.

Bouchard sat opposite, very much the worse for his long evening. Despite being washed, shaved and brushed, he showed a uncharacteristic disregard for his attire, with no coat, his vest unbuttoned and shirt open at the neck. Gone was the ebullient, dapper Don Juan of last night; he now looked pale and ill tempered. I firmly resisted the urge to tweak him for his late night, preferring to keep relations cordial. He could have easily pointed to proof of my less-than-tranquil night in the dark shadows beneath my eyes.

Even Emanuel's eyes were noticeably bloodshot, and his hand unsteady as he lit the candle beneath the silver coffee carafe. Anna was fussing at the sideboard, setting out platters of eggs, meats and bread, looking fresh and well-rested.

Fetching the lists Gadreau and I had made up the night before, I set my attention to the tasks for the day, instead of feeling the least bit sorry for the dolorogenic Bouchard.

First and foremost would be a visit to the Lyon Gere de Perrache to visit with Andre' Rosseau…the very thought of whom set me to silently cursing for his failure to deliver our travel papers. It was galling to think it could mean further delay, or that he had chosen to dismiss my request to send us south. No matter, today I would settle the matter!

Emanuel had hired a two-horse break for the afternoon for our use in moving most of our luggage and assorted goods back to the Pullmen. Xavier would drive, dropping Dietré and I off at the station; he and Anna would continue round to the siding and the cars. They were to unload our belongings into the front Pullman, and return to the hotel. Once Chanson and I were finished at the station, we would take a fiacre back to Le Corbusier. We would then immediately go out again…

Endless details…and so many questions to be answered!

I looked at the beneficiary to all this thought, worry and effort, who appeared to have nodded off where he sat, his coffee cup unsteady upon his knee. Thom quickly caught the cup before it tipped its contents down Bouchard's pant leg; Bouchard instantly startled awake, casting a menacing glare at poor Thom, whose hand still hovered, cup in hand, over Bouchard's knee.

Chanson grunted, narrowing his eyes at Bouchard; both men locked stares. Idly, I wondered who had won at cards last night…and if there was real ill-will here, or merely early morning posturing.

I noted the teapot remained upon its iron trivet, empty. Anna was unhappy because I had fetched tea and toast for my breakfast, instead of waiting for her to bring it up at the usual time. The fact I was up, dressed and out of the suite long before another soul had roused was immaterial…and not one I wished to share within the hearing of the over-protective Monsieur Bouchard.

I gave her a quelling look at her first indignant huff upon spying the teapot and empty toast tray. I suspect she understood quite well why I wished no further fuss…and wisely decided to let it go.

My very first task of the early morning, once washed and dressed, was that of posting the package containing Bouchard's gift to Christine de'Chagny, as well as the letter I had written Louise, done in guilt-laden haste the evening before.

Gaily assuring her it was 'Patently Impossible' the gentleman I was escorting to Livorno, Italy could be Erik de'Carpentier, I had elaborated further, saying, "No Genius, here. In actuality I do believe Msr Bouchard lacking in all but the most Rudimentary Wits. He is a Dull Fellow, Lou, devoted to playing Cards with the French guardsmen and Leering impotently at the hotel maids." To hammer the point home, I added, "This man is a veritable Toad, all warts and baser instincts, with the singing voice to match!" I restrained myself from playing it too wide, wishing to avoid sounding as if I feared actual physical assault from my fictionally unpleasant ward.

I knew the mail was taken to the local office to be routed into the appropriate mailbag early every morning, and wished to get both of these on their way. I especially wished to post my letter before prying eyes would have any chance to find it…

There had been an…unfortunate, and unsettling occurrence whilst I was delivering the letters downstairs. Having entrusted them into Mr. Crombie's capable hands, I had turned to see the unmistakable form of Mister Kahn crossing from the wide stairs, fortunately much engaged with buttoning his long coat whilst juggling hat and umbrella. Silently begging Mr. Crombie's pardon, I slipped around the wall of ornate wooden panels that divided the 'servants' hall from the wide, carpeted doorway that lead to the stairs. I all but ran past the bustling laundry, several stout chambermaids loading their arms with linens and a brace of round-eyed footmen, following the long hall until I arrived at the vendor's entrance at the back of the hotel…directly across from the kitchen.

It seemed quite reasonable to catch the eye of the closest kitchen boy and request a pot of tea and toast. I was on my way up the back stairs, tray in hand, within minutes, still asking myself why it had felt expedient to avoid Nadir Kahn.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoOoOo~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nadir Kahn stood for an instant in the wide entry before the concierge's desk, feeling the prickly chill of intuition. Meeting the eye of the hirsute individual who stood behind the desk, Kahn nodded once, intending to continue for the door, a trip to the telegraph office on his mind.

Down the servant's hall, beyond the Concierge's hip, Kahn was struck by the sight of a receding feminine figure topped by hair of an uncommon color. She appeared to be moving in a very hurried manner, as if running away…

A weight settled in Nadir Kahn's thoughts. Frowning, he again met the eyes of the large figure behind the desk.

The concierge nodded unsmiling in return, his eye never leaving Kahn's form.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoOoOo~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The break loaded with the majority of our luggage and provisions, Chanson, Xavier, Anna and I set off to the train station, leaving a fuming Bouchard behind with Emanuel.

Naturally, it would be _this_ day Bouchard developed an interest in accompanying us to the rail station…and I had denied him. There was no way I would now allow him to be seen…and perhaps remembered…at such a public place, _especially the train station_. Travel by train from Paris to Lyon was popular, with passenger cars running thrice a week, and as fast as any other method, barring private coach. I could not take the chance, especially when we were within hours of leaving this place.

The fact that he had frequented the stables…although cleverly keeping his left face foremost in any case…did nothing to ameliorate my disquiet.

Caught unprepared for his request to accompany us to the station, I had stuttered an awkward excuse of the lack of room on the break for more than four persons after loading it with our luggage. "And it is a very close thing for four, as the wagon is not large." I handed my travel basket to Emanuel to put up under the seat on the break, hoping to hide the hot flush that swept my face at the clumsy lie.

Bouchard shot a darkly amused look my way, and said, "Then I will remove my largest case. There will therefore be room for…" and waving a casual hand across himself, '…me.'

"No, no. Please,…" and then I was struck by inspiration. Looking to insure Emanuel and Anna were gone and no other ears close, I said quietly, "I need you here to keep an eye upon…hm." Since it would only be he and Emanuel, I figured the man would easily understand my intent.

Instead he gave me a very level look, and said clearly, "Hm? And who is it I am to 'keep and eye upon'?"

Making a most repressive face, I realized he was in no way misunderstanding me. Whispering, "Jerrod! Please,…" I held out my hands, only to have him step into them, narrowing the distance between us to mere centimeters. Flustered, I stepped back, only to hit the piano. My hands were now pressed to his vest front.

"I am tired of being confined within these walls. I will assist Xavier and Anna with unloading the wagon…surely you cannot object to _that_. I do not see the problem here…unless there is something you have not shared concerning the conditions of my _durance vile_!" His right cheek became slightly forward of his left.

I practically groaned in exasperation. Firmly stifling my annoyance, I modulated my voice to a gentle plea, sending him a most beseeching look. "Not today! Please…just let it be…" I moved to clasp his arms, wishing to give him a reassuring squeeze…or a good shake, but found my wrists clenched from above within his large hands.

"I'm waiting for an explanation!" His voice was like the slap of a hand on wood, not loud but certainly catching the attention of Chanson and Xavier where they stood at the suite entrance. Chanson raised an eyebrow to which I shook my head. Looking into Bouchard's eyes I could see the man's former ill-humor had now become surly suspicion, or perhaps simply 'meanness'. He sent a darkly ruminative look Chanson's way.

Gritting my teeth in aggravation, I sucked in my breath. "Stop this. Now. We do not have time. I have merely asked you…"

Bouchard threw my hands down, and growling inarticulately, spun away. "Am I always to be hidden away, like a…a mad wife? When does my life become 'normal', Butler?"

He stomped off to his room, closing the door with a stout thump. Unsettled by Bouchard's behavior, I found it necessary to avoid Chanson's eye during the trip to Lyon Gere de Perrache, dreading his questions once we were there with no Xavier or Anna for me to hide behind. Chanson was sometimes a bit too involved in the relationship between Bouchard and I.

It was upon reaching the station's main entrance that I realized there was a much bigger problem with Chanson accompanying me to the stationmaster's office; it left Xavier and Anna solely responsible for unloading the break. Looking at the numerous heavy cases, baskets and boxes, it was patent Anna would be little use in unloading the wagon. Nor did it make sense for Dietré to 'protect' me in a well-populated station. Thankful, I seized upon this excuse to forego Chanson's mildly invasive curiosity.

Turning to Anna, I said gruffly, "You will come with me. Chanson, you need to help Thom unload all this."

Dietré hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. "I will expect you to take a cab from here _directly_ to the hotel, then Mademoiselle Butler."

I nodded, smiling at his caution. "Are you afraid _for_ me, or _of_ Bouchard, Dietré?"

Dietré merely smiled back. Smiling, I led Anna into the station, heading for the first open ticket counter. I had many questions to answer before I met with the irritating man who ran this station.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoOoOo~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Careful questioning elicited that not only was travel south faster than that leaving Paris, but that a train would be heading south on Tuesday. However, the young clerk posited, spring flooding was always expected, and therefore the posted arrival to Marseilles was never more than an educated guess.

When asked if the station master was in the day, the clerk squinted, then shook his head regretfully. "Not usually. But his secretary might be."

Thanking the young man, we started for the back of the station where Monsieur Russeau's office was located.

The secretary's desk was empty, the desktop cleared in the way that said no one would be occupying it this day. Sighing, I turned to Anna. "This is intolerable. I have no idea what to do now." Dropping into a chair, I stared hard at the empty desk, considering mayhem.

"_Laisser une_…note?" Anna seemed unsure if I would take her meaning, and made scribbling motions upon her left palm.

I quickly nodded understanding. "_Oui! Une…ah…excellente idée_! Yet, I have no paper… _Je…aucun papier_." I peered about in the foyer, looking for something to write upon, pulling a capped pencil from my small bag.

"_Je vais aller sur le comptoir de vente. Sûrement quelqu'un_…" Anna turned, pointing back to where we had come, then pointed at the chair I occupied, saying, "_Vous restez? _You…stay?"

I smiled. "I will stay right here. _Je reste._"

Anna nodded, and left. I assured myself I had a long view of anyone who might approach, as only one open corridor lead to this office. Feeling perfectly secure, I settled myself to wait for Anna.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoOoOo~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I discovered, whilst looking at a large map tacked to the wall outside the stationmaster's office, the long boardwalk to the row of platforms beside the eastern siding actually started within a few yards of an unmarked door just outside the stationmasters' office. Our cars were parked upon the eastern siding, not far from the station itself. Therefore, if the map was correct, it would make more sense to walk the short distance to where the Pullmen were located, in lieu of walking twice as far through the station to hire a cab.

As short a time as we had spent in the station, I felt confident Dietré and Thom would still be unloading the carriage. Anna was not sanguine, but after a moment of visibly fighting her inclination to complain, fell obediently in line.

After negotiating several feet of shallow, sticky mud…a happenstance that brought forth a low exhalation of most unladylike words from Anna's lips…we gained the stability of the boardwalk.

Long storage sheds were centered on each of the wooden platforms tightly spaced along the curved siding. Walking apace, the front Pullman was soon visible between one platform shed and the next. Moreover, it appeared the side entry door was wide open.

I saw no wagon parked across the platform from the car, as it should have been to ease unloading and access to the Pullman. For a moment I was nonplussed; why would the break not be backed to the platform? Ah…the mud…it might have been necessary to maneuver around to the back of the cars in order to find dry access.

"Anna, we are in luck! Chanson and Xavier are here. We will ride back together…"

Anna made it clear she was unimpressed, stopping to catch her breath. I tended to forget she was so much shorter, and therefore possessed a much shorter stride. Impatient, I crossed the remaining platforms a little quicker, hoping for the chance to pull off my muddy boots and look around in the car before Chanson exited and locked it back up.

Anna continued to dawdle, holding her skirt up to avoid spotting her hem from the mud on her boots. I figured I now owed her a new pair for dragging her along such a muddy path instead of hiring a fiacre immediately for a civilized, ladylike return to the hotel.

Reaching the front Pullman, I noticed wheel tracks on the other side of the platform…exactly where I would have expected them originally. I thought little of it, confident my curiosity would be assuaged upon finding either Xavier or Chanson still in the car. I walked to the door, and stepped across the foot-wide space between the platform to the car.

The strong odor of gunpowder and hot metal instantly assailed my nose, stopping me in my tracks. A gun had been fired in this car, and many times judging by the smell.

And…_blood_. The coppery metallic scent was unmistakable.

I immediately stepped back and to the side of the car's entrance, sheer dumb panic and the offkey windup of the chorus within emptying every reasonable thought in my head. Voice squeaking with tension, I called out to Dietré and Thom.

A groan and muttered words were my answer. I turned immediately to Anna, who stood several platforms away fiddling with one boot. "**Anna, go back to the station and ask that the gendarmes come to this car.** _**And a doctor.**_ _**Run Anna**_**!" **

Anna, bless her tiny brain, must have picked up my urgency, as she whirled and ran back toward the station, her skirts held up nearly past her knees.

Turning back to the open door, I pulled the Sheffield from its holster beneath my skirt pocket, and stepped into the car, the pistol clenched tightly in both twitching hands, pointing at the floor. The broken groan repeated, coming from my right, which would be my sleeping alcove. I sidestepped to the wall, past the elegant brocade chairs and moved along it, keeping my eyes moving about the car's interior. There were shadowed areas to the left, and the changeable light caused by scuttling clouds across the sun did not help. Every flash of sunlight registered as something moving and my nerves coiled tighter with every flicker. I reached the end of the wall and crouched, thinking to be a smaller target. I peeked carefully around the corner.

Xavier was seated on the floor, his back leaned stiffly against the wall beside the forward door. His eyes were wide open, staring sightlessly toward his boots, a swathe of linen sheets and towels tossed across his legs, a basket laying on its side. The hole in his chest was relatively small, though the pool of blood that spread around him was not. The hole in the center of his forehead told me he would not being seeing anything ever again.

Stunned, I pulled back behind the corner, struck by a surge of grief so terrible I nearly cried out. Gritting my teeth, I grabbed hard on the fact Chanson was obviously still alive…and checked to my left again…nothing moved there.

Another groan from my bed. Quietly, I said, "Chanson, how badly are you hurt?"

His voice was thready and weak. "Mademoiselle…leave. We are…danger…"

"Where is the shooter Chanson?"

"Ma..selle…not here…they…left."

I thought about _'__**they**_'.

I stood, and slipped carefully around the corner, my pistol coming up as I sidestepped along the outside edge of the bed. Chanson was lying half on my bed, his legs tangled in the long modesty drape. His breathing was loud, making it impossible to hear if anyone else was in the car. No matter then…

I uncocked and holstered my pistol as I moved quickly to Chanson. Laying my fingers upon his neck I felt his pulse flutter and flatten repeatedly; his breathing was labored. I gently drew him up upon the bed by pulling the counterpane so that his back was not bent over the edge, and his breathing eased. The bullet wound was in the center of his upper left chest. There was no hope he was suffering a survivable injury, but I pressed gently to slow the bleeding regardless.

He opened his eyes and gazed myopically at me.

"Mademoiselle! You must…hide…they want…_him_."

"Hush, Dietré. A doctor will be here in a moment."

"_Aucune matière, je meurs_." ("No matter, I die.") He looked at me and coughed weakly.

"Chanson, please…" I was gritting my teeth to stop the onset of mad, chattering horror.

"Mam'zelle…they seek…Bouchard." He stopped and gulped. I felt my heart slamming against my ribs; I again checked his pulse, but mine pounded so loudly it drowned even the feel of his. I shushed him, but his lips were turning bluer by the second. He rattled on, ignoring me anyway.

"They…wanted…know where…but I lied…sent…east side. _You…run_. Leave now..." Again he gulped air, as the blood soaked my hands and skirts. I saw now that Dietré had been shot more than once...but not to finish him off, like Thom. They had tortured him, then left him here to suffer…

"Where…Thom…" Dietré's eyes filled with tears… "_Est-il mort_?"

"Dietré, oh, my dear friend..." I felt my eyes overflow, my throat closing. Dietré's breathing stilled... and the rattling noise of his lungs drowning in fluid compelled me to try to lift his upper body, calling "No, no… Dietré…my friend _please_…."

He squeezed my arm where it lay across his abdomen, twice, and his eyes opened, his lips stretching into a last weak grin. Stiffening as if with sudden pain, his hand then fell limp and animation left his face. I began sobbing silently, just a clicking from my snotty nose, and a racking pain that grew and grew in my chest. For several minutes, I held Dietré 's body, rocking, as if to comfort us both.

Eventually I noticed the sound of voices, many voices, coming from outside, with Anna's by far the loudest.

A group of gentlemen walked into the car from the platform, their boots thunderous on the thinly carpeted floor. Several carried pistols, some were in uniform. There was no doctor, but one of the armed men casually verified Thom and then Dietré dead. I sat on the bed, wiping my bloody hands on my skirts and hiccupped sobs from time to time.

One of the men stepped forward, identifying himself as Monsieur Jorge Rouhette, Security Chief for the Lyon rail station. After requesting my name, he then asked me several foolish questions, standing a foot from my knees as I sat on the bed, no doubt trying to bully and press me. I answered his questions, looking numbly at my hands, unable to see him anyway for the tears that I could not stop, my teeth now chattering loudly.

I fought the urge to begin screaming as he again asked "How do you know these men? Why do you think these men were murdered? Is anything missing?"

The voices inside my head repeated Dietré 's words, over and over: You run. Leave now... _They seek Bouchard… They want him._.."

Voice rising in incipient hysteria, I stood abruptly, and told the gentleman I wished to return to my hotel, that my maid would soon do herself an injury if she continued screaming. He sent one of his men running to fetch a fiacre from before the station. When asked, I gave him the hotel address for the Chateau de Metropolé. I was strongly advised to not leave Lyon, but to wait at the hotel.

Monsieur Rouhette smiled widely, strange behavior under the circumstances. "I will need to speak to you further regarding this crime, Mademoiselle Butler." His English was quite good.

Absently, I nodded.

Anna was outside the car, shrieking her head off; you would have thought she the grieving widow for either man. I was unmoved by her theatrics. Once our borrowed cab had left the immediate area of the siding, heading for the Metropolé, I commanded she shut her gob before I slapped her black and blue. Her tears and ear-piercing wails switched off like a tap upon looking in my face.

I pounded on the top of the cab, and yelled the address for Le Corbusier. The driver muttered nastily, but turned his horse around.

Silence engendering thought, I again went over what Dietré' had told me. _They_ sought Bouchard. Dietré had sent them east, to another hotel on the east bank of Lyon. I did not think we had missed meeting the assassins by much…mere minutes, actually. Had the killers finished off Dietré as they had Thom, I could not have known near so well how long we had before they discovered the misdirection. They had taken our slow-moving break, so had, no doubt, arrived via rail, and walked to the Pullmen, perhaps using the same path Anna and I had minutes later. I felt my breath tighten at the thought…

_How had 'they' known where to find our cars?  
_  
_Nadir had lied…or worse_...had cost two fine men their lives, and I could not stop the helpless rage I felt at the little man, nor the anguish for the death of Thom and Dietré. _Why did he not warn us? Because he had already given us away to those who sought 'Jerrod Bouchard'?  
_  
The need to see Bouchard was overwhelming; the hunger to touch him, to assure myself he was safe... The urge to protect him, stand against whatever evil sought him, stiffened my back and cooled my temper. I must _think..._

The sound of bridge planking under the carriage wheels jolted me to a fresh thought.

Anna should not arrive at the hotel until Bouchard and I were **gone**. Anna, great blatherskite she was, would do naught but be an obstacle to an unnoticed escape.

I rapped hard on the roof of the cab, wherein the trapdoor opened.

"Monsieur, do you speak English?"

The cabby, unfortunately, did not. His French was fast and unintelligible to me. I looked to Anna, who smirked, eyes full of resentment, unwilling to help.

Oh, Anna, you make this so much easier!

The wheels of the carriage hit the harder surface on the western side of the city. I rapped harder, and yelled clearly through the trapdoor, _"Arrêt. Arrêt ici_!" The carriage stopped immediately.

Reaching past Anna, I opened the door of the cab. I grabbed her by her plump upper arms and pulled her out of the seat, turned her roughly about and shoved her out of the carriage, insuring she landed steady upon her feet. I then jerked the door closed in her astonished face. Yelling to be heard over a surprised and angry Anna, I commanded..._"__**Allez! Allez**__!" _The cabdriver did not question my churlish behavior. He sent his horse forward at a smart trot, and I watched a furiously squalling Anna recede in the rear window of the carriage.

Time… we just needed time.

I mourned the fact I would not be here to do right by Thom and Dietré; to insure their families knew of their faithful service.

Fighting tears yet again, I yelled at the cabby to hurry.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoOoOo~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's Note:

I want to apologize for the time you must wait for updates.

I am a lifelong sufferer of depression, and there are times when the medication makes it near impossible to write anything but garbled nonsense. I have good days…and I have bad days, and although I LOVE words and crafting a good story, to focus upon one subject for more than 20 minutes defeats me utterly on anything but the **best** days.

I am also a compulsive rewriter, sometimes going over a chapter 20 times before I am happy enough to post it. Typos and the inevitable POV problems because the 'Line" won't print aside, YOU, my readers, are getting the very best I can give you.

I hope this will soften hard hearts against this humble author.


	40. Chapter Thirty Nine

**Chapter Thirty Nine**

A great restlessness has seized me, and I pace a path about the piano, through my room, and around the couches to Butler's room and back to the piano. Emanuel sits at the table, his chin resting on his fist, heavy-eyed and brooding. He watches me from beneath his ponderous brow; the affect not unlike that of some beady-eyed rodent hiding beneath a hirsute rock. Such an amusing thought…perhaps I could sketch it to share with Butler…or not. I cannot sit still long enough to put pencil to paper anyway…

I am unable to settle, even to sit at the piano and pound out my restlessness and frustration there. I am seized with the need to 'do something' instead of staying stifled and useless in this place. I want to walk out the door and go to wherever Aislyne has so selfishly busied herself. But I realize that is reactionary and ill-advised.

Further, she might construe such to mean I miss her…or have forgiven her for so mistreating me…

My head still hurts from the excessive wine of the night before, and it is long past midday. In a society where wine is thought to be a healthier draught than water, _naturally_, I have developed this damnable sensitivity to it…have had it for years. Something about the grapes or fermentation. It's the same with port or brandy…more than a glass and an iron ring takes hold of my head above the brow.

Knowing that…still I drank glass after glass of wine last night, eager for the companionship offered by three other, equally inebriate men.

The fact that Chanson cleaned me out of my last franc did not cheer me either. I did not cheat, did not mark or scuff cards, nudge or break the shuffle, or even palm a duce. Of course, that is no doubt why I lost so badly last night. Why, even Emanuel won a trick or two off me…

And this afternoon I lost my head. Having watched Butler's nerves become more frayed by the hour yesterday and this morning, I was not willing to allow her to leave the hotel without _me_. Whatever was happening within that fine head, I had the sense that she was fighting growing panic. Today her eyes seemed to grow wider as the morning wore on; her hands writhed against one another, shredding her handkerchief into laddered shreds. These things I noticed…something was wrong. It actually appeared that Butler was _frightened_.

Yet, all I could act upon, or give full heed was my pounding head and cranky belly.

Veering away from the large bay window in the parlor…what I wish to see is not there!…I again stride into my room to circle the armchair facing the low windows, out to pass before the fireplace, ignoring the now snoring Gadreau, and on into Aislyn's bedroom. I stop for a moment to stand, eyes closed.

It would be simplistic to say I feel _something, somewhere has gone horribly awry_...but I can think of no better way to express it. There is an inexplicable sense of _loss and sorrow _as I stand here in Aislyne's room. There is also the reassuring scent of roses and chamomile, her bath soap and the tincture she adds to her morning wash.

Perhaps the mysterious Mademoiselle Butler has affected my nerves with her cryptic demands and affectional behavior; I know she is hiding _something._ For an instant I give play to the idea I might force it from her…

I abandon her room to stand before the fireplace once again. Glaring at the man who now noisily slumbers, drooling upon the table, thoughtless of all but his own bodily ills, I declare _fortemente_, "They have been gone too long! _Merde!_ Where are they?"

Emanuel erupts from the chair, flailing for a moment in confusion…and turns a look of sheepish disgust in my direction. For a moment we consider each other with thinly veiled dislike.

Grunting, he subsides back into the chair, eyeing the door...and I know he would walk out if he thought there would be no consequence. I nearly tell him "Go. I will stay here like a good little boy, _je promets_," but I know I might well be right on his heels.

_No. Stay where she can find you._

The point is moot; Emanuel instead reaches into the bottom drawer of the sideboard and pulls out the bottle of Calvados he hid there several nights ago. Our man Emanuel is over-fond of the bottle… With apocryphal civility, he offers me a shot of the apple-flavored spirits, but I demur. I want my wits about me because..._something has happened_.

My anxiety and imagination are now working upon my reason, as I definitely _feel_ her as I walk through her room. Stopping to push open the door to her bath, I see towels crumpled into a wire basket, her soaps and lotions set out upon the marble counter below the mirror. Her toothbrush and tooth powder sit side by side, while her hairbrush sits opposite, a large comb pushed into its bristles.

I pace on, out of her room and past the divans and fireplace and the table where Emanuel crouches, toad-like, clutching a glass of his nasty apple alcohol. He appears ready to fall asleep again soon…

And into my room for the twentieth time…

_What is this?_ There is a folded sheet of thick paper, bearing the hotel's indicia, laying upon the counterpane of my bed. This was _not_ here on my last circuit…_and why is my stomach fluttering with dread and anticipation_?

I snatch it up, and open it to read…

_**Bouchard-****Tell Emanuel you are ****going to Read and Rest in Yr Room. ****  
Close & Lock the door. - AB  
**_  
My first thought is I can now stop worrying about the woman. My second is to wring her neck for playing silly games…

Walking to my door, I announce the plan to Emanuel, who appears asleep anyway, and firmly close the door, silently dropping the latch. Keeping my voice low and clipped with annoyance, I hiss, "Done. Now, where the devil are you?"

Turning sharply on my heel to the center of the room, I remind myself sternly that whatever Butler's game, I am not to forget how she…

_Blood_. She is covered in it. Across the front of her blouse and jacket, covering her sleeves, the entire left side of her skirt is solid rusty red with blood. I open my mouth to exclaim but her hand flies to her mouth…_hush!_

Her eyes are huge, filled with darkness and a terrible pain. _Loss and sorrow_...

They sweep my face…my entire body, as if to catalogue and memorize. She sighs, closes her eyes, and sinks to her knees…and my cursed paralysis is broken and I rush to her, kneel to her side, terrified that she is dying, suffering horrific wounds…

"Where are you hurt? Aislyne, where? Oh, God…can you tell me?" Whispering, I cradle her back against my shoulder carefully, and begin to search her, touch her blouse and jacket, pulling, and seeking the source of the blood. Meanwhile her breathing begins hitching, and she shakes her head, finally breathing, "No, nooooo…Bouchard it is not me. It is not _my_ blood…" Voice catching, she is unable to continue.

"Aislyne, who then? _Where is Anna_?"

Gently she fades from my hold and sinks onto her heels, on to the floor, pooled in the gristly chaos of her skirts. I watch horrified as her face twists with agony and lifts to the ceiling, and a soft, singular cry emits from her; a most wretched, heartbroken sound. In my confused state, my first thought is that she has butchered Anna Gadreau. There is that violence in Aislyne, tied and tamed only by force of will. However…

I touch her hair, stroke her shoulder, wishing to reassure her, but I am shaken to my very bones by the sight of Aislyne Butler so broken. Still kneeling, I can only wait and pet her as she struggles to contain her grief, until finally she dips her head and leans toward me, putting her forehead against my chest. Fiercely I clasp her to me; I bend to smell her hair, still redolent of roses. The smell of death, however, is all around us.

Quietly spoken, I hear, "I am covered in Dietré's blood. He is dead… murdered, and so is Thom."

Hiccupping sobs, she wipes her face of tears vainly with the backs of both hands, and moves to rise, but I stop her. "Please, Aislyne, rest a moment…you are overwrought..."

She turns in my hold and faces me, grasps my shoulders in her hands, her face abruptly manic with urgency. I see her hands are rimed with blood, and she has streaked it upon her face while wiping away her tears. She shakes me, as if I were not fully attending, and says, "Bouchard, we have no time, we must leave _now_. The murderers seek _us_ now, and I have wasted so much time…being weak… Bouchard, we must leave here as quickly as possible!"

I nod understanding, although I am not sure I do completely. I am still thinking about Chanson…dead…

Pulling a bag and a stack of clothing from beneath my bed, she pushes herself to her feet. "You must change into…different clothes. I will go there"…she points to the attached bath…"and do so. _We must hurry, Bouchard_."

She grabs my shoulder…I am, remarkably enough, still kneeling, thinking of my friend, Chanson… Butler clumsily hugs me, and kisses me on the lips. "I am sorry…so very sorry, Jerrod. We will speak of it…later."

She is up and away to the bath before I have a chance to react. The door to the bath closes and I push myself up to pull out the rough clothes I have set aside, along with the large leather shoulder satchel Chanson stashed in my room two nights before.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bouchard's bath was spotlessly neat, with nothing of the man left lying about. He had obviously used two towels and a cloth...they were neatly folded upon the tub side for the maid to retrieve. His shaving case sat upon the counter, neatly closed.

Using a clean cloth and working quickly, I lathered and scrubbed my face, and then worked over my body thoroughly to remove all traces of blood. I scrubbed at my hands until they were clean. My ruined skirt and blouse, chemise and slip were shoved together inside the bloody jacket, which when buttoned served as a bag.

Having stripped to don cotton drawers, I banded my breasts firmly with a long piece of French cotton toweling, soft and flexible but strong enough to hold the fastening pins without tearing during exertion. I slipped on the soft sleeveless undershirt, and the dark brown men's shirt that fitted me well enough that I did not appear to be wearing any but my own clothes. I tied the money belt about my waist beneath the shirts, and then pulled on the brown duckcloth trousers, soft and shaded with wear. A thick, worn leather belt kept the pants secure at my waist.

My boots were a pair of Quinn's, long ago out-grown, suited for riding and comfortably broke to my feet so I could walk in them for miles. I first donned a pair of thick but finely made wool stockings, well felted and soft with wearing, with four more pair shoved in my pack.

Da always said, "_Never neglect your feet. A man's courage is in his feet; if they have lost heart, so will he.'_ I realize how foolish that sounds, but I have found it to be sound advice nonetheless.

Pulling my hair back behind my ears into a queue, I tied it with a leather strap...very manly. I pushed my eyebrows up to make them look thicker and straighter. What with my broad shoulders and big ears, narrow hips and height, I made a passable young man.

My shoulder holster and pistol went into the shoulder holster beneath my coat, the coat being a young man's heather tweed, as worn and shabby as only beloved clothing will become. Long enough to cover the pistol, it also had several leather pockets cleverly sewn within, under a false lining. I could hide the single-shot pistol, as well as the wallet of francs and lire, and that paperwork I felt important enough to keep upon my person.

I swiftly stuffed the hidden pockets with a bit of paper money, a pen knife, two small boxes of safety matches, an iron hoof pick, and several coins of varying value, slipped into tiny pockets to hold them quietly. I made sure the shoulder harness was filled with the British-made .445 cartridges for my Sheffield pistol, as well as the small caliber loads for the single-shot. I had debated the wisdom of bringing the boxes of cartridges in the saddlebags, and had finally decided to hide them in the luggage left behind. I refused to believe I would be involved in a gun battle with Xavier and Chanson's murderers.

The knife scabbard was then slipped upon my belt to rest on my right hip, scarcely hidden beneath the coat. Slipped into it was a 7-inch _sgian dubh_, formerly the property of a Scottish laird. I had owned it since I was 12 years, having found it in an old junk store in London, and paid a few pence for it.

Once I had cleaned the staghorn handle and scraped the dirt and scant rust from the wicked blade, my brother, Tiarnan had thrown a fit upon seeing it.

"I know what that is, and you shan't be carting it about like a toy. That is a killing blade, what no doubt has tasted its share of blood. You will be giving that here, miss!" His hand was thrust out and his expression implacable. I, however, knew that a good enough excuse to win me but a little time, and he would forget all about the knife. It would then be a matter of keeping it out of sight.

"But Tiarnan, I need a knife ta' whittle with, and this one is sharp an' handy. I promised the girls whistles!" In my mind I spoke only the truth…no doubt I would whittle with it, and certainly, I made whistles enough for Kenna and Grania nearly every summer.

However, my real intent was to protect myself from the dangerous world I visited without my parent's knowledge…London after the midnight hour. Never would they know about that!

"I picked it out of a box of dirty tags and clatter, and bought it with me own pennies. Surely ye cannot mean to take it from me?" Sniffling loudly, tears rolling dolorously down my plump cheeks, my brother had relented.

But he had first inspected it, admiring the fine work of the blade, with its scalloped filework on the back, the clipped point and smoothly cut fuller. The real beauty of the knife had appeared after cleaning away the years of muck and dirt; inlaid in the horn handle on both sides were carved silver insets of two silver thistles and a full rose nestled together in a ring of stag antlers. The guard was wrapped silver wire, worn smooth in places from wear.

"Its mine, and I'll keep it forever!" My own 12-year-old voice faded, as I heard Bouchard scratch at the bath door.

I shoved my bloody shoes and clothes in the waste bin, threw my saddlebag over my left shoulder, and opened the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The vicissitudes of manly fashion aside, I have some experience with dressing for less than civilized conditions. And I had days ago done a desultory investigation of the sartorial gifts packed within the large portmanteau I had been given. Those fabrics and colors that I considered déclassé I had simply packed to the bottom.

Yesterday I had again dug to the bottom, retrieving a treasure trove of truly ugly articles of clothing, all of which would serve the purpose as required by Butler.

I find it interesting that Abrigaun was able to foretell I might need to dress as a peasant. Thoughtfully provided were two pairs of 'workmen' like pants, straight legged, with no-nonsense buttoned flap fly and the heavy stitching favored by the working man. Made of heavy, dark grey cloth, I soon find they are more than long enough, and actually fit well. There are the most hideous shirts on the continent: two each, drab blue. They possess minimal collars and rudimentary cuff sleeves, have long enough tails but absolutely no tailoring to fit. I look a trifle inadequate within the oversized shirt, but they do cover past my wrists!

No matter. I scratch on the bath door to notify Butler I am ready, as I shrug a ludicrously ugly dark gray vest over the ugly shirt. I then begin to fill my pockets with necessities: a knife sheathed in leather, to be hidden by my coat; a small pad of paper and two short pencils, a comb, cleverly folding scissors, a small weighted cudgel, and the revolver that I have carried since Plourde 'misplaced' it during the first day of our travel together, along with shells….

The door opens and I am still going through my bag, lifting and weighing the worth of the jumble of items I have there. I collect odds and ends…it is a failing and a passion…but if you have ever needed a bit of wire, or a way to jimmy a lock and found nothing to hand… well, it is the way I am. Some things about myself I cannot change.

Butler has not uttered a word and I raise my face up from where I dig through the bottom of my smallest leather case, wondering what she is doing.

I know it is she. I know her face; every pore, every long hair on her chin, the fifteen...and counting...freckles scattered across her nose. But the figure before me is…a shocking revelation. Legs that look as long as mine yet altogether more interesting; long, slender thighs, and hips that curve just a bit more than a man's would. My eyes cannot help but stop at the front of her trousers …to see this place where her legs stop…the way the fly tucks under at the inseam... I feel my face flame and I jerk my head up, to look her in the eye…and find she is watching me with shaded amusement.

Her face 'disguised' is that of a comely young man; softly defined cheekbones and full, rounded cheeks that lend the face its youth. Elegantly defined lips curve to a natural smile, beneath the typical Irish nose, narrow above and wide below, with the faintest ball at the tip. A firm jaw line leads to a prominent...some would say aggressive...squared chin. I am amused to note she has a noticeable point to her ears when viewed from the front. Now why had I not noticed that before?

She whispers, "Bouchard, whatever are you doing? We need to go…"

"Yes, yes. One moment…" I stop and stand for a moment, my thoughts swirling. I realize what it is I seek, and turn to excavate for and grab my collection of small wires and hooks, needles and various little hand tools, carefully fastened in a leather roll. I stuff this into one of my pockets, and pull on my dark brown boots…which lend verisimilitude to my disguise by way of their intoxicating aroma of horse manure.

I don a scruffy grey wool waistcoat that I had once decried the previous occupant for even owning, and pull the carefully packed leather satchel over my shoulder. Both items I will forever consider a posthumous gift from Dietré Chanson…my friend.

Butler hands me a hat, and I see she has one also. Pulled down about her brow is the most disgraceful item, ugly, dirt colored, with faint stains at the band that could be sweat and a shapeless brim that looks rat-chewed in spots… She has handed me its near twin in couture, looking as if it were used to clean the muck from the bottom of someone's boots. With shock I realize she has handed me my own fine grey fedora, now but a shabby phantom of its former magnificence.

Parting my hair in the middle with indifferent accuracy, I pull the hat down over my forehead.

Slipping out the door from my room that leads directly to the hallway, after looking both ways, Butler locks the door and puts the key on the frame above. I no longer wonder how she gained access to my room…

She heads quickly down the back stairs, which are not far from my room's private entrance. She is in a volatile mood; I can hear her teeth clicking with tension, yet there is no sign of it on her face. Despite the substantial boots she has chosen to wear, her steps are nearly silent on the wooden stairs. It is the way she has her right hand poised to yank the pistol from under her jacket that worries me… I fear for the poor chambermaid who unwittingly surprises her at one of the lower floor landings.

Following at a more leisurely, and purposely noisier pace, I say in conversational tone, "Relax...you are alarming me," for which I receive a very unfriendly glare. Nonetheless, Butler slows and her shoulders relax infinitesimally, but that hand remains beneath her jacket...

The servants' stairs decant into a long hallway that leads to the busy laundry and storage regions of the hotel on the left, the kitchen directly across, and a wide vendors' door immediately right, that opens to the outside area behind the building.

The vendors' door is open, and a pretty kitchen maid is leaned against the jamb, fanning her flushed and dewy face. I note with interest that her blouse is untied far past the wrong side of decent, and her dark curly hair is pinned into a bubbly confection atop her head. Enjoying the view immensely, I nearly run over Butler upon her hasty stop on the last stair. She looks to the left, no doubt to ask if she should begin shooting our way free of the menace at the door.

Dropping my hands heavily upon her shoulders, I press my thumbs firmly into her back, silently encouraging her forward. I receive a mutinous grunt in response, but we progress to the door, my hands still firm on Butler's shoulders. Like a shy youth, Aislyne drops her eyes to her toes, mumbles a deep "_pardonne_' to the pretty servant, and pulls the brim of her hat down as she slips past at the door. Clever girl.

I do the same, with a murmured "_pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle_," but allow the young woman a good look at my left face, using Chanson's most forward eye contact. She smiles coyly, and flaps her blouse wider, displaying breasts streaked grey with dirt and old sweat on creamy, taut skin. I wink and give her an appreciative blown kiss.

Yes, she will remember the very friendly man…if anyone should ask, but that is all.

We walk casually past the coachmen and general riffraff that hang about the back of the hotel, and I can feel Butler compressing, a hare preparing to bolt. Butler strides faster, her long legs' visibility a novelty I could do without; it is unnerving to have so much of her on display. I could easily keep up with her, but I find myself compelled to walk behind, between her and the rabble behind us; my eyes stray far too often to those legs…

We are halfway across the yard, well out of earshot before I speak. "And where are we going, Butler?"

The look she pitches in my direction is both quelling and wall-eyed with terror. I am silenced for several strides, thinking of Butler's unspoken admission of fear. I have not asked for details of the deaths of Chanson and Xavier, nor has she offered what has happened to Anna.

My patience is meager; thoughtless impulsivity and avid curiosity are my most troublesome character faults. However, I find I am not ready to drag Butler back through the ordeal in the retelling, nor am I eager to hear the ugly details of what happened to Chanson. I accept it was appalling; logic says it happened at the railcars. No, not yet.

Finally she turns her head stiffly toward me and hisses, "I do not sound much like a...man, so I prefer not to speak. And surely we must not use names!" She has regained iron control of her emotions, but she radiates a dark anxiety that is strong enough to touch.

I want to grab her hand, comfort and reassure her …which would draw more than a few looks and comment. I can only speak to her in a soothing, conversational tone, "We draw more attention if we behave oddly; my dear, please relax. No one is giving us the least bit of attention. We need to talk before we proceed much further, and you can lower your voice in tone well enough to pass."

We reach the rough fence before the coachmens' pens. John and Aminta are nearly lost in the darkness of the trees at the far edge of the pasture, among the herd of cattle. It is Aminta's ghostly grey hide that reveals them. I sigh with regret; leaving on horseback sounds far more interesting than what I will be suggesting, but is impossible under the present circumstances.

Butler stops at the fence, and looks out over the pasture, face intent. "I think it best if we get as far away from Le Corbusier as possible. Past that point, I am still considering. Perhaps we should head north to Switzerland…although I am not thrilled with the idea. So..."

"In other words, you have no plan." She turns to me, ready to argue but we both fall silent when our eyes meet. I see the weight of her grief and guilt, and the strain of our present straits upon her face. I again fight the urge to touch her...soothe her…

Casually I turn back to the grazing animals. "Aislyne, let me take this off your shoulders. I have spent nearly my entire life perfecting the arts of escape and evasion. Whoever murdered Chanson and Xavier will be looking in all the expected places, the coach lines, the trains…" Lost in the blinding flash of an epiphany, I stop.

"What do you suggest then?" She turns aside and begins paring her nails off with the wicked knife she wears at her hip. Her eyes never stop flicking about covertly and I actively fear for her fingers.

"I suggest that you stop appearing as if you are a hunted deer, and relax. The entire idea of dressing such as we are is to be other than what we are. I am not 'Bouchard'; you are, definitely, not 'Butler'. And we are not being given the least bit of attention."

She gave this some thought, then whispered, "So, what do I call you?"

Is that not a loaded question? I consider it for a moment, "We should go by something familiar...something that whatever happens or how exciting things become, we will know it if called." I thought of all my aliases. I had enjoyed the name 'Woodman' as it was such a delightful play on 'de'Carpentier'. Woodman was known in these parts, however. There was also my Persian non de plume…

"You can call me 'Angus'...that is what my brothers called me when I dressed like this to go hunting or steeplechasing with them." She is nearly smiling, her eyes and thoughts distant, as if remembering happier days.

I am not smiling; I am not amused, and the feeling is wretchedly familiar. I growl, "You cannot mean that you have dressed so before?"

The narrow-eyed look she fixes upon me is neither tolerant nor conciliatory. "Did. Had frequently done with my brothers and their friends while I lived in London. I continued to do so while in Brighton, although always by myself." She gives me a 'so there' nod, but her eyes are full of reserve.

The mental picture of Aislyne riding about dressed thusly in a crowd of grown men plays hob with my sensibilities. Soundlessly I curse; I cannot stop myself from thinking of the others who have seen her...legs wrapped about her horse, body bent over its neck, her…derrière clearly definable… I struggle resolutely to chill the flash of jealousy and squash the reflexive condemnation of such hoydenish behavior.

Aislyne turns away, her arms wrapped about her chest, her jaw working. She acts as if she is going to ignore my little fit of indignation, but suddenly turns back to me, eyes aslant with annoyance, "Damn your ill-placed prudery! I rode with my brothers, every one as mulishly protective of my..._virtue_...as one could wish. Anyone else knew me as 'Cousin Angus.' I rode as hard as I liked without anyone worrying about 'the woman' keeping up." Her lips are tight, and she is glaring 'down' her nose.

Giving her one head-to-heel scan, I cannot help myself…I laugh roundly. "I have no doubt several of your brothers' friends went home suffering disturbing thoughts concerning 'Cousin Angus'."

A very unladylike snort and guffaw issues from 'Angus' in response. In a forced deep voice she rumbles, "Beyond the occasional rude or crude prank, I never so disturbed their minds when dressed as my own sex, sir. Perhaps I should have tried my luck dressed in trousers!"

"Oh…Aislyne…" I look at her and find I have lost the courage to say what I would. Pushing off from the fence, I head off towards the narrow cobbled street that runs along the side of the hotel. With minimal effort 'Angus' matches my gait, moving with that limber swinging grace that is never gender-specific. I cannot help but sneak an occasional glance down at her legs. She is, obviously, quite familiar with the wear of trousers. I admit she looks very comfortable.

I have the feeling my personal comfort is to be a casualty of our present situation.

We step onto the narrow, roughly cobbled street adjacent to the hotel, and switch direction, heading for Rue St. Jean, the wide avenue that runs at the front of the hotel. Aislyne hesitates but an instant, obviously unsure about the wisdom of my chosen direction, tucks her head and catches up, but I see her unspoken questions.

"I await your decision. Do you trust me enough to allow me to get us out of France?" I pull Aislyne about to face me, "You must trust me…."

"I trust you." Such simple words, no embellishment attached. But in those intense eyes I see faith and confidence…and perhaps a bit of dependence. I am awed by her belief in me…I know trust is not something she gives away easily.

"What I am going to suggest will sound insane..." I chuckle lightly at that, "however, before we hare off for the southern coast of France, Switzerland, or Timbuktu, I believe we need to discover who is after us."

I step away, picking up a small bit of earth from beside the crumbly red brick wall that surrounds this side of the hotel. Adding a few drops of rainwater into my hand, I mix a bit of the earth into a thin reddish-brown wash. Pulling Aislyne closer to the cover of the wall, I carefully apply a light shadow to her lower face. "This will not do by the light of day, but will serve to give the illusion of a masculine face by fading daylight..." I gesture to the westering sun, "or torchlight." I overshoot a bit onto her nose; licking my finger, I wipe it off. She smiles at that.

"And you should call me 'Anton'. It was my stage name, briefly, when I lived in Italy." I incline my head in a courtly bow.

"Monsieur Anton, then. And how do I look?" She joins me, 'making a leg' and dragging her hat in the dirt of the lane.

I stand back and admire my handiwork in the failing light. Aislyne looks somewhat more believable as male, although she would never stand close examination. "You will do, my dear. Now, let us walk to that outdoor café across the street and make ourselves comfortable."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The café was closed, as all good Catholics eschewed the evils of liquor, checkers, and café food on Sunday. A modest wall surrounded the front terrace, plastered and painted white. The floor was rough bricks laid in a frenetic pattern of circles and outlining swirls, with fine sand swept between. Thick beams overhead supported a nearly solid ceiling of gnarled grapevines, tendrils of small leaves brushed our heads when we stood.

The terrace was shadowed by Le Corbusier, the sun setting directly behind it, but I felt as if we are altogether too visible. My companion, pooh-poohed my concerns. "Vagrants frequently sit here. No one expects _us_ to sit across the street and await our pursuers."

This was Bouchard's…or should I say Monsieur Anton's objective in 'hiding' us in plain sight. "I want to see who is hunting us." Teeth flashed in a murderous grimace. "And who is responsible for Chanson and Xavier…"

For an instant I saw again the man whom I attacked one morning in the Pullman… Shivering, I turned away.

The gaslighter did his magic along Rue St. Jean, and traffic on the wide boulevard eased as people were home, enjoying their dinner and time with their families. The hotel was ablaze with light at the portico and all along the wide glass front. We had an excellent view of all comings and goings. In the past half-hour, there had been none.

Leaving me to fret, Bouchard disappeared briefly, returning with crusty banquettes, a bowl of soft yellow cheese, a crock of olives, and two jugs of pale beer. I knew better than ask any questions; we were, after all, sitting at a cafe, albeit obviously not open for business. I was hungry enough to do my share of damage to the stolen meal, although I told my companion we should leave money on the counter. He snorted derisively, then confided "I have done so, _mon cher_."

He sat in one of the café's wrought iron chairs, offering me another. I demurred, choosing to sit on the smooth warm stone of the terrace, my legs stretched before me and my back to the rough stucco wall of the café. Leaning my head back against the wall's rough surface, I felt as if I had slipped into a still backwater after a day of fighting raging rapids. My head hurt, my chest was tight with residual anxiety, but an emotionally numbing blanket had settled over my memories of earlier in the day.

I could not, however, push back the memory of my powerful reaction to finding Bouchard safe...untouched. The intensity of the emotions... the rapture…I borrow the word unblushingly from loftier text, but none other could come close. The immediate need to get him away and safe pushed me past the moment, and I regained my emotional balance. But there had been a moment when I was very close to making an utter fool of myself. Bloody and disgusting as I was, I doubt Bouchard would have appreciated an ecstatically hysterical woman attacking him in a feverish fit of hugging and kissing.

How thankful I was that he remained unaware of the depth of imprudence to which his governess could sink.

How wonderful it felt to have him pull me close...how blessed the feel of his heart beating strongly against my forehead.

I was not ready to tell him of the events of earlier in the day. I wanted this step out of time...sitting here with him, both of us dressed like riffraff...although 'Anton's' new clothing could have used a bit of rough use to look more the thing.

His voice was low and rich...have I mentioned how beautiful even his conversational voice can be?..."More cheese, Aislyne?" and "There are olives left_,__ chère_." Nothing overtly affectionate, just companionable discourse that soothed my wounded spirit immeasurably.

Having eaten our fill, Bouchard, who had joined me on the floor of the terrace, complained that he was not padded enough to sit there for long. I smiled faintly, unable to think of a reply that didn't require looking at his rear. Unabashedly looking at mine, he grunted inelegantly, saying, "I have no idea how you can stand it...I would think you would be in agony, as spare as your _arriére_ is."

Incensed, I growled, "There is more there than you think…Anton!" I opened my mouth to remonstrate further, only to be arrested by the change in his expression.

Jumping gracefully to his feet, he whispered, "Ahh. At last...listen..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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	41. Chapter Forty

**PLEASE FEEDBACK! I'm feeling a bit INSECURE!**

**Chapter Forty**

Hooves and carriage wheels could be heard racketing at some speed from the south on the cobblestones of the Rue St. Jean, to soon appear as a town carriage pulled by four sweat-covered matched bay horses. There were also five uniformed men; two sitting on the drivers box, and the other three on the footmen's rail at the back.

Turning into the front drive to Le Corbusier, it immediately became evident an enraged Anna Gadreau was within. An older gentleman of medium stature, grey-haired and spectacled, exited the coach nearly before its wheels had stopped turning, attempting to control an incensed Anna. Despite her lack of height and useful heft, the gentleman was working hard to keep her from entering the hotel; she knocked his hat and specs off, pounded his chest, and upon being hoisted off her feet, began screeching invective in French.

Bouchard pulled me to my feet, and giving me one hard look, whispered, "I am thankful to see you did not kill her!"

Shocked, I whispered, "Why would you think I had?"

He never answered. A tall, swarthy, elegantly appointed gentleman unfolded from the carriage, autocratic languor in every movement. Wrapped in a full-length blond overcoat he reset his matching stovepipe upon his artfully arranged black locks, drew off his gloves, and stood, one elegant Hussar Bushkin boot poised before the other. My fellow vagrant stiffened and hissed inarticulately; I could see his teeth nearly to his molars. Could it be Bouchard knew the man?

The taller gentleman made no move to help his companion restrain Anna Gadreau, but ordered two of the uniformed men to "Go around the outside to the back and insure he cannot leave there! You and you...get the room number! Go get him, damn you!"

Waving his gloves, he walked to the portico's massive stone pillars, carefully arranged himself before one, and proceeded to pick his teeth.

It then occurred to me I had left the Gadreaus to suffer the consequences should these men become angry because of our flight. My hands locked together, and I clenched my teeth. The last bottle of beer thumped against my hip. "Stop feeling guilty. I doubt either will be harmed." Bouchard began rubbing something along the front of his trouser legs. Dirt.

"You are so sure?" I hissed, passing the warm beer back his way. I was thirsty after the salty olives, but the second beer was bitter and flat. "How can you drink that?"

"Hush, it is the best I could do on short notice. Let us move back," wherein he pulled me backward into the shadows at the side of the café.

After several minutes there were shouts and a scuffle at the wide glass doors, and Emanuel Gadreau staggered from the building yelling for Anna, his face bloody, shirt collar torn and one sleeve hanging loose, followed by two of the uniformed men. I may have made a squeak of dismay; I immediately had a hand across my mouth, and was pulled backward against my companion's chest. The hand across my face soon fell to my shoulder; Bouchard did not move away, and accepting the comfort, I did not move either.

Approaching the shorter gentleman who was holding Anna, Emanuel spoke French, asserting he knew nothing other than what he had been told when hired; he had no idea where Bouchard had gone, having just 'minutes ago' heard him in his room.

While Emanuel blustered and threw expansive gestures at the older gentleman, the tall, swarthy person, who had been leaning insouciantly against the pillar at front of the portico, shoved away from his post, appearing to wander aimlessly across the wide cobbled drive. Adjusting direction slightly, he strolled silently behind Emanuel, and stood grinning at him, shaking his head.

I felt Bouchard's breathing change, and his fingers lightly returned to press my lips, in warning.

The man who now stood directly behind Emanuel, and who seemed heretofore disinclined to offer anything beyond his presence to the proceedings, struck Emanuel viciously with a short, wicked-looking club he had hidden in the wide pocket of his long coat. The lightening-fast blow was to Emanuel's back, just at the left kidney; Emanuel fell with a muffled shout of pain and Anna began screaming her brother's name, fighting to free herself from her captor. Shaken, I turned my face to hide against Bouchard's jaw, just peeking at the periphery of my right eye.

The older gentleman released Anna and began remonstrating with his sadistic associate, who was still grinning cheerfully, swinging the short, lethal club about, not unlike a young boy with a cricket bat. He responded to the complaint by losing his smile and speaking in a hard, vicious spatter of threats to the other man, who immediately stepped back in consternation, and then moved to the carriage.

Anna ran to her brother where he writhed on the ground in silent agony, his body twisted backward in an attempt to relieve the pain. Falling to her knees, she attempted to comfort him, but twice she turned and spat words at her brother's attacker when he leaned closely and spoke to her. Unbelievably, the man then laid hands upon her, slipping them inside her low-cut bodice. Anna went up like a flight of quail, jumping to her feet, and attacking her harasser. He must not have expected such a reaction from the tiny woman…he stopped smiling when she knocked his hat to the muddy cobbles while he bent over, laughing in her face, to protect his groin from her fists.

His face convulsed in rage, the man stepped toward Anna and slugged her once, a solid blow that caught her in the face, and sent her flying toward her brother's body. Emanuel was attempting to rise, only to be knocked back to the hard bricks when Anna landed across him.

Guilt that I had not thought to warn the Gadreaus warred with the horror that such a monster should be seeking Bouchard. I felt the hand upon my shoulder tighten and Bouchard's lips at my ear sent my confused emotions spiraling. The sound of his soothing voice mixed strangely with the soft keening I heard in my head. My throat was tight with tension; I wanted to close my eyes...

Emanuel's attacker moved away from the Gadreaus, cursing, dabbing gently at a spot on his hat. He moved to the carriage, and putting one elegant boot upon a front wheel, pretentiously dusted it off with a snowy handkerchief. The smaller gentleman was obviously outraged; he stood rigid, yelling at the two men who had come out of the hotel with Emanuel. He remained a good distance from the devil in the blond coat.

At that moment, the other two men who had been sent to the back of the hotel returned, one of the stable boys between them. No more than 10 or 11 years, the boy was terrified, and repeated the litany of "_Je n'ai vu rien, monsieur_!" (I did not see anything…) The older gentleman moved to meet the trio, and asked the young boy several questions in a civil voice. The boy answered courteously with his cap in his hands, no longer held by his captors. His answer was most often '_non, monsieur_".

After several question-and-answers, the swarthy man began screaming, and then clearly demanded the two guard adjacent to the boy "Hold him!" Striding across to where the boy and his captors stood, he waved away the smaller man's protests, and violently pushed his way past when he would have stopped him. So fast that it took one a moment to realize what was happening, he began to backhand the boy repeatedly, switching hands. The boy sagged after the third blow, blood beginning to flow from his nose and mouth. At a barked order from the boy's abuser, the uniformed men held him up, their faces grim.

To his credit, the older man tried immediately to stop it, finally throwing himself between the dreadful man and his victim. I would have been far quicker to end it however, had Bouchard not stopped me...

My shock at the scene playing out across the street paralyzed me for several seconds, as the boy's head snapped left, then right with the first two blows. Abruptly, a red wall of rage cascaded unchecked past the emotional restraints I kept so firmly in place, overpowering any sense of danger or threat to our safety. Without thought, I spun around, my vision sharpened and locked on the man...I measured the shot; it was an easy one. I could hit him accurately at twice the distance...would put the bullet neatly into his ear without the need to double check my aim.

Unconsciously my hand flew to the weapon under my left arm…

A steel band encircled my wrist and I was pulled about, my right arm pivoted down and up behind until it was pinned behind me, and I was nose to nose with Bouchard. For two heartbeats the urge to scream…to fight him, overwhelmed my better sense, but at the touch of his long fingers to my lips, all the fight left me. His eyes bore into mine, golden light blazing from within, strangely reflected from the brightly-lit hotel behind me.

I could feel his frustrated anger at the violence visited upon the boy, upon the Gadreaus, and especially at the reality we were powerless to do anything but watch. He dropped my arm and pulled me tighter to his chest...I buried my face in his neck, hiding my tears and panting for air. I felt Bouchard's hands rubbing and patting my back, awkward and unsure, but vastly comforting, nonetheless.

The rising voice of protest from the older man and cessation of the appalling smack of each blow to the boy's face indicated the abuse had stopped.

I rolled my head on Jerrod's shoulder, wanting to stay in the shelter of his body, but not able to keep from watching now that the older man had taken some control. Perhaps if he were smart enough, he would stop the entire charade and return this vicious demon to the seventh basement of hell from whence he came!

The older man's demeanor made it obvious he felt events were moving in an untoward direction. He ordered the uniformed men to release the boy, who fell to his knees for a moment, then rose and ran, weak-limbed and stumbling, for the safety of the hotel.

The taller man wiped his hands on a handkerchief, staining it red with the blood from the boy's nose and mouth. His grin undiminished, he looked about, even across the street where Bouchard and I stood, silent and hopefully invisible.

Suddenly the devil threw back his head and screamed words in a foreign tongue; not French or anything I have ever heard. I felt Bouchard react. His arms remained around me, but his body become as still and hard as the stucco wall beside us. I could hear and feel him grinding his teeth, his anger and frustration patent.

Both of us were breathing hard...my chest ached with the effort of dragging air into it. I knew I was nearing the hour of another attack, but not yet, dear heaven, not yet...

At last, both men entered the carriage, and the uniformed men assumed their posts. The driver sent the horses forward with a "huzzah!" and slap of the lines upon their backs, careening around the drive to the street.

Anna Gadreau continued wailing, calling for help for her silently suffering brother.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From the darkness beside the Café Chat we watch the Gadreaus' ordeal at the hands of a nightmare from my past and the unknown gentleman who obviously comes equipped with his own private militia. I am amazed that Butler has not broken down completely, considering the violence she has seen in this one day. She twists her face back over her shoulder, up against my right cheek…the feel of her lashes sweeping across the over-tender flesh is distracting, but I know she is not aware of anything but the brutality just yards away. She shifts to see why Anna has returned to her high-pitched cursing, and we watch horrified as Zamir teases, then openly gropes Anna. At that final insult, Anna flies at Zamir, her small fists pounding his body, actually knocking his hat to the muddy yard when he bends to protect himself from her...

The sound that rises from Aislyne's throat when Zamir hits Anna sends chills down my spine. I have never heard its like before today; twice Aislyne has lapsed into this keening cry. I find myself soothing her with my voice, holding and hushing her, in an effort to keep her lungs from seizing in reaction, and prevent me from doing something rash and utterly useless.

Her response is to lean against me, her body fitting itself to mine from thigh to shoulder… My wordless song seems to encourage this, just as it appears to diminish her bronchial reaction to emotional stress.

Nonetheless, I fear she will soon be overcome by all that has happened this day...

It is with the beating of the stable boy I realize I need not worry my Aislyne will swoon with missish vapors. Even as control over my own outrage falters, there is a flash of heat from Aislyne's body, palpable to me, neck to thigh. Suddenly where before she was compressed and immobile, she has come unleashed… every part of her in motion. She spins about and I then feel her lright hip rock back, nudging hard into my groin, her right shoulder drops and moves away from me, her arm obviously reaching for the pistol at her left side.

For one instant I am aghast at the things of which this woman is capable! She cannot honestly mean to shoot…?

Moving swiftly to stop her, I reach with my left hand to meet and capture her right, before it can grab the pistol. Pivoting her about on her left leg, I step back and pull her on around to face me again, twisting her right arm up behind her back, hoping thus to control her if she decides to resist. For a second or two she seems to consider just that. Cradled between my body and her pinned arm, I place my free hand upon her lips to still the heated words building behind them. Her submission is immediate, but not without resentment. She stares angrily into my face, panting for air...the physical price she pays for strong emotion...

Across the boulevard, Zamir begins yelling angrily when he is thwarted in his beating of the boy; the other man has thrust himself between Zamir and his small victim. Aislyne rolls her head upon my shoulder in order to see what is now happening, her breathing still labored.

The shorter man is nearly incoherent with fury at his partner's brutal behavior. Zamir laughs in his face, and begins stalking about the front drive. Throwing back his head, he screams in Farsi "I will find you, you gut-faced son of hell! I am here for you, Magician! I know you can hear me!

For one moment he seems to stare into the very darkness where we are hiding, but he walks in a wide circle and looks just so in all directions, laughing and throwing his arms about…he is as mad as ever. And as dangerous…

"I am here to finish what we started, Aeshma! Look behind you…I will be there!"

I feel certain he knows I can see and hear him at this very moment, and I do not enjoy the sense of vulnerability that gives me.

Still ranting and laughing, Zamir ibn Hashim shoves one of the uniformed men from his path, and clambers into the carriage, yelling for the other man to hurry…that they must leave before the hotel calls the gendarmes on them. The older man reluctantly enters the carriage after one last disgusted look at the carnage Zamir has left behind. Soon the coach is barreling down the Rue St. Jean from whence it came. Both Gadreaus are being helped by members of the hotel staff, with Anna demanding their attackers be found and executed. She is still combative even as she is half-carried into the hotel, a cold towel to her battered face.

I realize I have been holding my breath, grinding my teeth, rigid with the challenge that has been thrown at my feet. Every muscle in my body aches from the adrenaline release in the seconds since Hashim roared his message to me. Aislyne is staring into my face, her hands clutching at the front of my coat.

Upon my first deep breath, she gasps convulsively and drops her face to my neck. Immediately I croon softly into her ear, allowing my voice to work its magic for us both...easing her emotions and channeling mine to some worthwhile direction. I am genuinely pleased by the salubrious effect my singing has upon her lung seizures, but can no longer ignore the effect she is having upon me. She melts into me when I sing to her thus... Her breath warms my ear, lips softly pressed against my jaw, as her lashes brush my cheek.

Surrendering, I lose myself to this tiny space in time...allow my body to experience the sensations as Aislyne Butler bridges yet another schism between other men and me. I put my arms around her, awkwardly, to hold her to me, and put my face against her hair. I cannot stop one soft whimper, forced from me by the twin flares of physical and emotional need. Her breathing catches raggedly, and I fear she will now move away…but instead feel her arms move round about my back to bring me even closer. One hand is actually under my coat and vest, only thin fabric between her palm and the scarred, unsightly flesh of my back! I cringe…thinking to end the embrace now, before she notices it and is repelled… Her hold tightens, as if she hears my doubts.

"No," she breathes.

We stand, just so, for several moments; I cannot say for two minutes or ten, but certainly neither of us seems willing to let go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is expedient we move to a place of undisputed safety and secrecy. Knowing who pursues us has afforded me neither peace of mind nor sense of confidence in my ability to keep us safe. Zamir ibn Hashim is the last person I would want on my trail were I alone…with Butler also to keep from his grasp, I am…troubled.

With her gentle withdrawal from our embrace, Aislyne moves to settle her saddlebags carefully over her shoulder, then checks to insure her pistol is secure with one careful look in my direction.

"You are ready, then? We have quite a ways to travel tonight." I pick up my satchel and turn to her where she waits, head up, expression anxious, obviously waiting.

"I am fine. But…Bouchard, please tell me." She looks unsure.

At my silence, she 'hrmphs' and says, "Who was that?"

I, however, do not wish to discuss this now, and I am not likely to change my mind anytime soon. Keeping Butler in the dark would only be a kindness to her…

I prevaricate without a qualm. "What makes you think I…."

Face twisting with instant irritation, she stabs a finger at my chest. "No, you do know. Your entire body said, 'I know', so do not bother lying to me." She turns away, and shaking her head, abandons the argument. Which is out of character for my Aislyne. Nonetheless, she is going to return to the matter once she is feeling more in control...and I will have several questions of my own to ask.

"Aislyne, we need be moving; so the questions must wait." I turn to step over the short wall that surrounds the café terrace, and stride off into the darkness beneath the trees that line the boulevard, hoping she will follow. I believe I can feel her behind me, but her steps are silent, and her labored breathing seems to have quieted. I turn my head to check and find her right at my elbow.

Relieved, I turn back without explanation. I have no doubt she knows exactly what is in my mind, anyway.

We move east along the Rue St. Jean, passing through faint circles of light thrown by the gaslights posted infrequently along the avenue. We cross the Pont Este to the peninsula and turn to go north along Saxe Blandine until we no longer see the lights of the Lyon Gare de Parrache.

I know exactly when Aislyne's thoughts turn to the Pullman cars that sit upon a siding just south of us. She says nothing but gives several discrete sniffs. I am thankful she is behind me, and cannot see the unsightly result of my own grieving.

I remonstrate with her gently, "You will streak your beard, Angus."

A low grumble is her response, followed by a soft, a final sniff.

Walking across the peninsula is risky in the evening. Footpads and cutpurses abound, seeking the easy pickings of those who are unable to hire conveyance to their lodgings or homes 'just across the Pont'. Fortunately, we are seldom alone this early in the evening, with many people returning on the trains from visits out of the city. We walk among entire families consisting of exhausted parents herding groups of fractious, fretting children complaining of physical needs and fatigue.

Several young men have returned for university, the worst for having spent their weekend imbibing strong spirits. There are two men with women who have the perfectly groomed, desperate look of mistresses. All told, there are enough people, walking alone or in small groups that we do not look out of place.

A reassuring number of gendarmes are present along the quaysides, their main headquarters located a stone's throw from the south-most rail lines. A pair join the group in which we are part as we move north up the 'Neck'. At the Place' Bellecouer most of the families and couples head for the residential areas, and the ornate Residence Belcour, a popular _hôtel_.

At the northern environs of Lyon, our fellow sojourners are looking rougher. I am amused by my companion's ability to look tall, male and a bit dangerous. Her head has assumed a subtle sway, and her naturally broad shoulders roll with each step. She has added the illusion of breadth to her body by holding her arms out just a bit. A rolling walk lends silence and a cat-like grace to every stride. Her hand has abandoned the pistol…it rests instead at the pommel of the wicked knife she has sheathed at her hip.

We both draw looks, and are sized up by loitering watchers of every stripe for our possible worth and defensive ability; we must be an imposing pair as we pass unchallenged.

We continue up the Neck to the La Croix-Rousse, the 'silk district' where the thread that runs through every life is silken. I choose to take the Pont d'Oro as it means a shorter trip although it is frequented by university students, who can be very troublesome, especially to a man with a deformed face... However, we pass unmolested.

We reach the southeastern edge of the Parc Téte d'Oro just as the moon surmounts the haze that hangs above the eastern horizon. We are in Croix-Luizet, a small neighborhood of glass artisans and laborers. No gaslights grace these streets. In fact, the streets are so narrow that two donkey carts have problems passing one other. The buildings on the street have been built up over generations, and second and third floors are bumped out over the street. Some are still alight despite the hour; somewhere a violin is being played…Brahm's Violin Sonata #3, I believe.

Aislyne has not uttered more than a handful of words since we began our journey over three hours ago, concerned with her ability to sound 'male'. As we descend into the underbelly of Vieux Vienne-Lyon I have expected her to question my choice of sanctuary…but not a word has she said, nor does she seem concerned with the surroundings. In a very odd way, she seems to be enjoying herself.

My armed nanny is full of surprises…

We both hear the footsteps and voices behind us simultaneously. Measured, loud, somebody wants us to know they are there. I, of course, have the advantage of expecting them, so I am not concerned. Aislyne looks at me with the question plain, 'What do we do?'

I pat her hand, and speak clearly, "All in time, my friend, all in time."

Again with the snort of disgust. Dear Aislyne has a low opinion of what constitutes man to man conversation.

Ahead there are several small tables set against the front of a shop, and a distinctive hanging tin sign with a large red boar's head painted upon it. Although I cannot find it likely that things would change much in 10 years, I need to assure myself our followers are who I seek. As we come abreast of the far edge of the Red Boar, I give my companion a quick guiding push to the right, sending her off the walk and deep into a _traboule_ hidden between one building front and the next. Pulling her to a stop, I place my fingers on her lips. We rest ourselves against the cool, dry wall and wait.

Footsteps…two…four…no, nine men. Three walk past the mouth of the _traboule_ and stop at the other side. I hear others behind us, in the passage itself… Aislyne twists her head to indicate behind us, holding up two fingers. Two men? She sees them?

We all listen, breathing quietly, unmoving.

A high-pitched voice calls in playful, sing-song French, "I know you are in there. Come out and I will go easy on you both. Stay and you will probably die."

I must chuckle, my relief is that great. "I'll die then, because only a fool would think you would otherwise allow them to live." The sound of my voice startles Butler; she grabs my arm, but is silent.

"Who are you? What do you seek here?" I grin to myself at the sound of the voice; no matter how old and ugly the man gets, his voice will always be that of an adolescent girl.

"I am an old friend of the King's and no friend of yours. At least, that is what you told me last time I beat you at piquet."

The quiet outside the _traboule_ is broken by loud whispers and high-pitched giggles. Voice squeaking with glee, he says, "Come out then, and be recognized and welcomed."

Aislyne's eyes are again huge in the dark, but not with fear or anxiety. I could swear she is grinning! Nonetheless, I touch Aislyne's chin with my fingers, indicating all is well…to wait…

Laughing loudly, I say, "Grinçant, I cannot be sure that 'welcome' is what awaits us. As I said, you did not call me 'friend' not so long ago."

"My dear fellow, naturally I was somewhat annoyed at losing such a sum of money. What man would not? But? Time has passed, and you have been long absent. Come out now. Honestly, Brother Fantôme, my dear friend, what choice do you have?"

Ah, _zut_! I look into Aislyne's face to see if she has caught the name, to see the oddest expression on her face. Well, there is nothing I can do now…

Grabbing Aislyne's hand, we walk carefully out of the mouth of the passage. I hold my arms up, and remind Grinçant, "You know me. My companion I vouch for with my life. I need to speak to the King, Grinçant. Tonight."

I am holding my breath, as Grinçant, and indeed all of the Brotherhood of Glass know me as somebody quite different from the reclusive uncle to a vicomtess. Of course, they, too, do not have the slightest idea of who I really am…

Quietly, two men approach us, and we are commanded to remain unmoving. I am thoroughly inspected by a pair of hands; my revolver and knife are noted, my trouser pockets, boots and satchel checked. The search is thorough, and I am uncomfortable at a few places the hands go. My face is touched, careful note made of the right side. I hear grunts of protest from my right, and speaking in Gaelic, reassure her, "They are just checking your weapons, making sure you have nothing hidden. They will not take them. Oh, and you will need to forget about being 'Angus'. There is no way we could put that over this group."

Answering the same, Aislyne's voice is somewhere between a whisper and a hiss, "Oh, dear heaven, what should I do? I cannot walk about in this outfit before men who know…oh! _Arrêtez cela_!" A muffled smack follows Aislyne's last outburst, then the sound of a young male's laughter. "This fiend just grabbed my…my…"

"Aislyne, relax. Just…please relax. I will protect you, but some things we must endure."

"Yes, but this little _isean coileach_ continues to search the same damn places."

I speak firmly to the young man who is still poking and pulling at Aislyne's clothing. "I will gut you like a fish if you touch my woman without need again."

Utter silence. Then my squeaky friend speaks, "Doigt, you are to search her, not make love to her." Several men laugh at this, and I am afraid Aislyne knows what Grinçant has said. She looks darkly at her molester, and raises her hand as if she would smack him again.

Thwarted of his fun, the young man steps away from Aislyne, but gives me a cheeky grin. I hear the movement behind us, and expect the hood that falls over my eyes; Aislyne is less prepared, but only squeaks. Large hands grasp my upper arms, and I am tugged into a walk. I hear Aislyne's boots behind me…she must be walking noisily on purpose.

Hopefully we are on our way to Hall de Verre, and a meeting with the Glass King.


	42. Chapter Forty One

**Chapter Forty One**

At the sound of pounding upon the doors across the hall, Nadir Kahn cracked his door in time to see two uniformed men shove past a startled Emanuel Gadreau into the suite. Alarmed, he heard the sound of several doors being violently opened…and in one case…unmistakably _kicked_ open, all the while Gadreau loudly protesting, his voice rising. Within minutes the suite's entry doors were again slammed back against the walls, and the unfamiliarly uniformed men hauled an enraged Gadreau down the hall to the main stairway, unresponsive to his shouted questions.

One did not have to be an investigator to know whom these men sought, and for several heart-stopping moments he expected to hear the tumultuous result of them finding him. Erik would not go without a fight.

It was with surprise…and many grateful prayers…they had not. Which raised the question…where then was Erik? Having kept an anxious eye on the comings and goings of his neighbors across the hall, Kahn was sure Bouchard would have been in the suite, Emanuel Gadreau serving as his 'keeper'.

Earlier he had watched as Mademoiselle Butler, Anna Gadreau, and the two de'Chagny men left the suite. Before this a great deal of luggage and miscellaneous boxes and baskets were carried out, presumably to be taken to the Pullmen railcars. Which meant their departure from Lyon was imminent…

What had just happened?

With a sense of inevitability, Kahn stepped into the hall, listening for any movement from the grand stairway, and hearing none, moved silently up the hallway to the suite entry…the heavy oak doors left wide open. There was no sound of movement within…no sense of occupancy whatsoever. He stepped over the threshold, scanning the apartment left to right from the doorway.

It was no surprise to find the long common room dominated by a massive black piano; the drop board closed and bench precisely centered and pushed beneath the instrument's keyboard. After so many months without any form of musical instrument, Kahn expected this to be Erik's primary _mise en place. _There was a leather-bound sketchbook leaned against the music rack; a quick riffle of the pages revealed countless sketches, many recognizably Erik's hand. God knows he had seen enough of the man's work through the years to know his style! Others were obviously not…the lines finer, the work nearly photographic; a feminine hand. How perfect that she should have that talent also. Kahn felt his lips stretch into a smile, quickly lost when he recalled the situation at hand.

Moving silently, Kahn quickly scanned the maid's room, and what was obviously that of Mademoiselle Butler. Both were spotless and neat, with nothing to draw his interest. With a sense of growing anxiety, he moved to the opposite end of the suite to what would be Erik's room…the door open, the jam splintered and broken.

Beneath the bedside cabinet was a wadded piece of the hotel's watermarked notepaper, apparently tossed there carelessly. Written in pencil in a shaky hand were the words: _Tell Emanuel you are going to read and rest in your room. Close and lock the door. AB_

Nadir Kahn was vaguely shocked at the possible significance of the note...he stuffed it in his pocket, and followed a trail of mud bits that lead into the bath.

It was here that Kahn found the bloodied women's clothing, shoved into the waste pail, pushed far into a shadowed corner. The half boots at the bottom of the pail were certainly muddy, but were also sticky with blood. Kahn reassured himself it had not been the mademoiselle injured; a quick search of the clothing revealed no holes denoting stab or bullet wounds. However, someone had lost a great deal of blood...and Aislyne Butler had been holding the victim while they had done so.

A bath cloth laid neatly over the edge of the sink was faintly stained with what could only be blood. A towel beside it was damp, with two long coppery hairs upon it; Mademoiselle had cleaned up in Erik's bathroom.

Now seen in the glaring light of the bloodstained clothing, the note carried a much different connotation to Kahn. It was apparent that the mademoiselle had hidden in Erik's room sometime this afternoon, having returned to the hotel covered in blood. How had she had escaped notice? Kahn looked quickly under the bed where the cloak she had worn had been thrown, traces of blood left on the inner lining.

She had accessed his room using her hotel key…all the doors to the suite would open to the same key…slipping in from the hall. Erik had not been in his room, perhaps at the piano. So, Mademoiselle Butler had written the note after slipping into the suite via the hallway door from Erik's room.

Kahn moved to stand before that door and looked across to the bed. He now could see the mud from her boots, and bloody smears from her clothing upon the glossy wood floor on this side of the bed. Here she had crouched in wait for Erik to enter his room and notice her note, likely left upon the bed where Erik would notice it immediately.

There was a very damp, bloodstained handkerchief between the footboard and counterpane to the bed. Tears and blood, an eloquent mix.

Laying these things out in the virtual grid of the scene in his mind, he sent a provisional prayer of thanks to God, assured Erik and his nurse companion had left the hotel before whoever sought them had arrived. The Mademoiselle's bloodstained clothing still troubled him, as it clearly meant she had been involved in a most horrific scene. With that came the thought: where now were the other two men and Anna Gadreau?

It would be foolish to assume the mademoiselle's bloody encounter and the men seeking Erik were unrelated events. Having crossed their path, and fully grasped the implication, Aislyne Butler had come back in time to grab her patient and escape before these persons arrived.

Kahn exited the suite at a trot, heading down the stairs, intent upon identifying who it was that sought Erik de'Carpentier. Upon reaching the hotel lobby, he found half the hotel staff at the broad front windows overlooking the cobbled courtyard. Several of the younger maids were crying, others exclaiming in horror and shock. The evening manager was attempting to herd his employees back to their work, with little result.

Pushing past those gathered before the front entrance, Kahn was in time to watch a large carriage careen out of the hotel's drive onto Rue St. Jean, three uniformed men clinging precariously to the back, while the uniformed driver whipped up the horses without mercy. He could not see inside the carriage.

Both Anna and Emanuel Gadreau were on the courtyard cobbles, Emanuel prone, his head in his arms, and Anna on her knees, holding her brother and screaming incoherently. Several members of the hotel staff were attempting to comfort the hysterical woman, and assist Emanuel.

Kahn turned to the closest of the women who stood wide-eyed at the window. "Can you tell me what has happened?" The woman immediately related the events of the preceding several minutes, her voice revealing more avid interest than any proper sensibility for those injured. She averred she had not actually seen what had happened to Emanuel Gadreau. "Somebody said he was attacked first by the devil who struck the woman in the face. Poor Jons, the stable boy, was nearly beaten senseless, and I certainly saw that!" Belatedly eyeing Kahn with a chary eye, the woman said, "And who might you be, Monsieur?"

Kahn was accustomed to the native citizens of his adopted country viewing him with suspicion because of his appearance and accent; he smiled equitably. "I am trying to ascertain why these two were beaten…and by whom."

The woman's expression grew cautious, and her manner subdued; even a hotel maid knew when she was speaking with _les flics_! Holding up her hand she mumbled, "I saw nothing…" and moved away. Kahn made a mental note to speak with the hotel manager later, pushing through the crowd to assist the Gadreaus.

He would have time later to consider who was pursuing de'Carpentier…and how Aislyne Butler and Monteque Abrigaun had known they were coming. It was quite clear he could expect no response to his telegram sent very early that morning requesting news from Vicomte de'Chagny. Despite the urgency he had expressed, he had received nothing.

He was very afraid his ignorance and de'Chagny's obstinate reticence had already cost lives, and could well cost two more.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

I sat, eyes at half-mast, wondering just what Bouchard had led us into. We sat upon a settee that was long past being 'shabby, in a room containing that one piece of furniture. One man…a very odd looking person wearing a monk's robe with the hood over his head…leaned wearily against the wall across from us with an elderly muzzleloader leaned against his thigh, aimed up at his own head. As frequently as he listed sideways into helpless sleep, I actively feared the weapon would soon be dropped and damaged. It was a lovely piece of craftsmanship, with scrollwork on the barrel, and elegant carving upon the stock.

Bouchard had his head against the wooden back of the settee, his eyes closed, hat pulled low upon his forehead. I was not fooled; our 'guard' could not blink without Bouchard reacting. When Bouchard's squeaky-voiced friend had left us to sit in this room, Bouchard had pulled me entirely too close to him upon the shabby settee to be seemly. I was quite literally mashed against him, his arm behind my head, and devilishly uncomfortable it was. I can only assume this was to provide visual cues denoting 'ownership'. Any other time I might have exercised my independent spirit; presently, I was happy to accept his protection.

Eventually, Grinçant returned to question us as to our presence in 'the Kingdom'. Bouchard again stated he sought audience with 'the King', whereupon Grinçant began to whine and singsong in triple-time French. Naturally, I got very little of what he said, but decided he took top honors for the most annoying manner in saying it.

I was initially taken aback by the man's unfortunate looks; his face was strawberry red, with the same texture in an over-sized fashion. His nose was ballooned to nearly twice its normal size, pitted and raw in appearance. Taking in the puffy maxillary sinuses, watery eyes and obvious oedemic platelets about the forehead and cheeks, I wondered what it was he came in contact with every day that affected him so terribly.

The man turned to me, and speaking in heavily accented English, whined "Cherie, best you don' stare at what you cannot 'ave. I would not want our Phantom here to tear off my 'ead as his woman fancies me. I am pretty, yes?" He then laughed, squeaking, crouping, and squealing away like a congested piglet. I could not help myself…I giggled at the man's strange humor and shot a quick look at Bouchard.

Bouchard seemed embarrassed, giving me a darkly self-conscious stare. "Why do you laugh, Madame? You are the one with the dirty face!" I blinked in surprise at his rancor.

He then informed Grinçant that too much time had passed since he had earned the marker "Ghost" and he would prefer 'Monsieur Anton'. I nearly volunteered my name as 'Angus'.

Using spit and the corner of one of my many handkerchiefs, I worked on removing as much of my 'beard' as I could...glaring at my companion when he found the process amusing.

God in Heaven, I was exhausted! It had been an hour…at least…since Grinçant had questioned us. The walk from the hotel in Vioux Lyon covered a lot of ground, and I had enjoyed precious little physical exercise in the last weeks. I do not complain; to walk in the dark, brushing up against the darker elements of Lyon's citizens had been…restorative. My night vision being excellent, I had slipped into the old London habits of walking aggressively, yet silently…the 'Seven Dials sneak' is what my brothers laughingly called that particular gait…and relaxing my vision to see in wide angle instead of focusing on one area.

Bouchard set a good pace, and despite his own lack of conditioning, seemed tireless. I must confess, he moved with a rare grace and economy of motion that was a pleasure to watch even from the back. He also had the stature and physical presence of someone not to be confronted lightly, whatever the intent. I automatically settled one stride behind him upon his right, as befits the lower ranked of two members of rough company, leaving room for effective defense should that be necessary. My hand rested upon the pommel of my knife in a most obvious fashion.

All of these things meant something to those who watched us from the shadows. It said clearly, "mess with us and you have big problems." At least, that is as I learned it during my nighttime forays in the dark hours in London's meaner streets. I could only hope it translated the same here.

The real estate had altered drastically along our route, from quayside with its disreputable dockside bars, gaming hells and houses of ill-repute, to commercial blocks, where specialty shops, restaurants, and saloons attracted those who sought evening distraction. Always there was the smell of the rivers, a feel of damp with a dash of fish.

We moved north on the peninsula, the Croix-Rousse...the 'Hill that Works', before us until Bouchard abruptly turned east in an area that seemed to be university buildings and attendant residence halls for students. We crossed to the eastern side of the Rhône over the Pont d'Or, from the Croix-Rousse District. This was a small stone and iron bridge that seemed a perfect place for us to have our throats cut...but Bouchard lead us across apparently without concern, and we remained unmolested.

Immediately on the other side of the water, the streets and lighting improved dramatically. We were now walking through a genteel residential area... the 'town house' squares...which Bouchard assured me were the most heavily problematic to those avoiding trouble. Dippers, nibblers, pimps and their dollies loitered at the periphery, catcalling and looking us over hungrily. Short-tempered, heavily armed private guardsmen marched the wide, well lighted sidewalks within the confines of the elegant neighborhoods. We, therefore, moved like shadows, eschewing the sidewalks, keeping to the streets and walking as quickly as we could without attracting attention or undue suspicion.

Passing through consecutively seedier neighborhoods we finally reached a small commune that had no doubt been an outlying small town before Lyon engulfed it. Bouchard slowed down considerably, taking careful note of surroundings...something he had not been overly concerned with heretofore.

The streets were little more than dirt packed cobbles in most places, but were clear of debris and disrepair. However, even suppressed as it was by the chill of night, the area reeked of the older open sewer pits behind the buildings. The light of a waxing moon did not penetrate much to the streets below because of the way the buildings were built over the street.

It was dark, but my night vision is excellent, and I was honestly enjoying myself.

That is, until our followers made themselves obvious. My stomach kicked over, and I moved up to one-half pace behind Bouchard, excess bravado fled.

Bouchard said nothing, and in fact, gave no sign our situation had in anyway changed. I knew he was aware of them...they made sure of that...and could only hope his lack of concern meant they were whomever we had come to see.

Soon thereafter we ducked into one of the dark tunnels...Bouchard called them _traboule_... that riddled the older parts of the city. Standing quietly we listened to the advancing footsteps…Bouchard obviously concentrating on working out the number of our followers. I looked down the tunnel to the faint opening at the other end, and watched two men silently enter, both moving closely to the opposite sides of the wall. Neither advanced more than a pace or two inside the tunnel itself...just stood and waited. I let Bouchard know; he acted surprised I could see them, but otherwise unconcerned. I could not help but think he knew more than he was sharing with me.

We were to be trapped, then, and whoever it was would soon appear at this end, making their demands. Bouchard's face showed not the slightest unease. Perhaps I looked apprehensive...he touched my chin, a light tap, and smiled. I took heart from that and relaxed.

Bouchard and a gentleman with an extremely irritating voice and speech pattern traded news, insults (I think) and apparently reached agreement. We walked into the relative light of the street, and Bouchard immediately indicated that I should hold my arms away from my body.

'From the shuttle to the fire', Mam would say...

After being rather too thoroughly searched by a young man who assured himself...several times...I was female, we were hooded and lead here, to a location that was 82 paces and two flights of stairs up from the tunnel entrance. Wooden stairs, so we were still in the warren of buildings that comprised this small back hole district of Lyon.

It was nearly anticlimactic...sitting here, watching a monk with a muzzleloader attempt to sleep while standing. I refused to succumb to the drowsiness that dragged at my eyelids...the deep fatigue I felt in muscle and bone.

I did not intend to miss _anything_...

Abruptly, the door at the monk's elbow opened, startling the fellow so badly he dropped the gun. It fell with a clatter, pointing to my side of the settee, although in truth I occupied the same end as my protective companion. I was then hovering midair over my companion's lap and still moving, having been snatched up and away from the gun's putative firing line.

Predictably, the gun did **not** discharge; muzzleloaders require a spark to the priming charge to do that. Obviously Bouchard did not know this.

Bouchard, however, went off like a Chinese cracker, flying from the settee in an enraged tear, having first dropped me, like ballast, over the side of the settee's arm. I landed painfully on my arse, slamming my left elbow a numbing blow on the wooden arm of the settee. Across the room, Bouchard stood silent a full stride from the now wide-eyed monk flattened against the wall. Still tumbled in the corner, I was at a disadvantage as I could see only the upper back of Bouchard, but his entire affect was that of lethal torque. I expected him to spring for the monk's throat…

Gracelessly shoving myself from the corner and to my feet, I rushed to stop Bouchard, thereby bringing into view the man who had opened the door, and thereby instigating this entire mêlée. A fencing epee…a mere springy needle of a weapon, was in his hand, point settled in that interesting hollow right below Bouchard's larynx. Teeth bared and fists curled tightly to his sides, Bouchard glared angrily at the man who thwarted him in his quest to throttle the unfortunate monk.

I latched upon Bouchard's arms from behind, and began tugging wildly to pull him back from that sharp little point. The entire time I was yelling in Gaelic whatever came to mind that could break his lethal concentratration...to recall him to sanity! "Bouchard, _Tá mé ceart go leor. Sguir! Ulbh reasgach duine! Sguir_! (Bouchard, I'm fine, I'm okay! Stop! You stubborn brute! Stop!)

Rounding upon me quite abruptly, he grabbed my shoulders in his murderously strong hands and I could not prevent the rush of fear that pulled the blood from my cheeks. I grabbed his forearms and stared back, searching his eyes for the man I knew…the man I…

Bouchard jerked me against him so quickly I lost my breath. "_Zut alors_, As…Anna. _Vous savez__mieux_…" (You know better.)

I was beginning to feel my life was the same three events played over and over…

I was also just the slightest put out at being called 'Anna.'

The man with the fencing epee dismissed the monk, who picked the elderly firearm off the floor with exaggerated caution and fled the room without delay. I looked at this newest annoyance over Bouchard's shoulder; he was smirking most nastily. I pushed away from Bouchard, but not before putting my lips to his ear, whispering "Temper, temper, my dear!"

Upon Bouchard's turning to face him, the man again pointed the epee at us and angrily asked in fractured English, "Why are you here?"

The epee was entirely too close to my face and I pushed it angrily away with the heel of my hand. I found myself looking _down_ upon a thin beaky nose, protuberant watery eyes set narrow in a pockmarked, upturned face. I topped him by several inches. I leaned toward him, eager to educate him thoroughly on weapons and manners...

"Anna." I looked sideways into Bouchard's face…and stepped back, surprised to be doing so, having heard much more in that one word than he had actually said.

Bouchard's reply was blessedly sane and calm, if a trifle harsh; "I wish to speak to the Glass King."

The man grimaced, and spat in heavily accented English, "That is impossible."

He swished the weapon up and around between us, coming close to my flat chest, and entirely too close to Bouchard's face. Bouchard never flinched and the evil little peck's grin grew wider by the second. I glared and ground my teeth…

Flushed with the thought that his little pricker made him twice the man, he stuck it once again far too close to my companion's abbreviated nose. "_Fantôme_, I am surprised to see you without your mask! Surely you do not believe that you have improved your looks in ten years?" Braying with spurious laughter, his yellowed, overlong front teeth gave him the look of a convulsing rat.

Bouchard did not dignify this with a response, but I could see the muscles knotting in his jaw, as his shoulders rose an inch in growing discomfort. The man walked toward Bouchard, who backed up one step, then stopped to stand his ground, allowing his tormentor to lean up nearly into his face. I wondered why Bouchard had given ground to the man at all…

The epee swishing busily at his side, the man rocked his head back and sneered. "You have not graced our Hall for years, Ghost! I doubt dues owed the Brotherhood are paid. Who in _L'infer_ are you to now come demanding to see Lord Pelagius?"

I felt Bouchard's discomfort increase at the name _Pelagius. _However he squared his shoulders, stating, "I do not know who **you **are to question me, Brother Lumière. I paid my dues to the Brotherhood in gold coin, four times the lifetime rate. I am paid for **life**."

Bouchard's voice and demeanor were strong without being aggressively so, but his eyes held a dangerous spark. Brother Lumière seemed oblivious to anything but his own importance, propped solely upon the end of the light fencing epee.

The little _puthag_ again waved this about, making _whooshing_ noises, wearing a truly pathetic expression of superior attitude. Grunting manfully, he flashed his yellowed teeth at Bouchard. "Nonetheless, you are no longer of the Brothers who call Luizet Hall de Verre home. We no longer accept **freaks** in the brotherhood, _Fantôme_! The Glass Throne has no time for such as you...ugly, misbegotten whore's get that you are..." Turning to me, the little peck grinned, his eyes insolently cruising over my heated face, my chest, my hips, and back then to taunt Bouchard further. His face twisted into something beyond ugly; "Your woman must _pity _you..."

Livid with rage, I kicked the epee from his puny grip, jerked him totally upright by his coat collar and hit him once, in the nose, with a right twisting drive from the shoulder, just as Kavenaugh had taught me all those years ago. Pain radiated up my arm, but the feel of his nose contacting the very middle of my knuckles was _heavenly_. I let go, leaving the man to stumble backward, arms flailing. He hit the wall behind him, his head bouncing once. It certainly did not bounce twice, as I followed him back shoving my left forearm across his scrawny neck. My _sguin dhu_ was against his ear before we stopped moving.

Within a haze of red, I glared down at the goggle-eyed little ponce, as he sniffed and snorted at the blood that freely ran down his chin, dripping upon my coat sleeve. The hot bloom of my fury unabated, I spat to his face, "Damn you! I will show you who is 'pitiful' you sorry little...!"

I was plucked off the man by Bouchard, and relieved of my knife by someone else. I suddenly noticed the room was filling with men, among them our original escort of nine. The mangled visage of Grinçant loomed into my view, abbreviated though it was by my hat having tipped over my right eye when I was hastily removed from Lumière's throat.

Grinçant was laughing so hard he could barely stand.

I was now gasping for air but still scrapping mad; Bouchard turned me in his arms so that I faced him and pulled me to a corner for privacy. Vaguely I heard his warmly amused voice at my ear, crooning "Temper, temper, temper, sweetling..."

I cursed roundly in the 'ald' tongue', but Bouchard merely laughed softly. "A fine example you set for this impressionable young man, Madam!" I felt the anger drain from me, to be replaced by a burgeoning sense of foolishness.

Grinçant's squeaky voice gabbered in French, and the room erupted in male hilarity. Surprised, I looked about us, and was intrigued to note Bouchard looked the slightest put out, his cheekbone pink with discomfiture.

Grinçant then smiled at me, and again speaking to my companion, did so in English for my benefit: "Brother Phantom, I pray you sleep with a hand to your cods when the little woman is unhappy!" He handed Bouchard my knife.

Any amusement at my companion's former discomfort evaporated in the intense heat of my own blush. Several men laughed, obviously acquainted with the English language.

Bouchard eyed my red face, grinned and offered, "Brother Blowpipe, I am of the belief that is why I have one eye that never closes." He then demonstrated, although holding his hair down over his right cheek to do so. The men about him howled with laughter, and assured him how useful this must be with such a 'she cat' at his side.

I leveled a long glare at Grinçant and Bouchard, and crossing my arms and narrowing my eyes, ignored them all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoOo~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Despite Bouchard's request to speak immediately with the Glass King…that I thought highhanded anyway…we were instead taken to the home of one of the Brotherhood…I never knew him but by his 'brother' name…to rest prior to our audience. This suited me as I was near pitching over with fatigue, and it was long after midnight...at least. Bouchard protested, but at the wee hours of the morning, I can only hope he did not really expect this Lord Pelegius to leave his bed just to meet with us.

Because the accommodating gentleman had arrived in a pony cart, Bouchard and I were squeezed together in the box behind the seat, our legs hanging out the back. The pony pulling the cart was such a narrow, rawboned wee beastie, I worried the two of us would tip the cart up, leaving the pony dangling in her traces. Fortunately, 'Brother Tagliol', our host, was a vigorously proportioned fellow, and kept the forward end of the cart well weighted. I felt sorry for the pony, however.

I am sure 'Brother Phantom's' good standing as a dues-paying member decided Brother Tagliol to take us to his home. I am afraid we would otherwise have been left to cool our heels in the little room where we had spent the preceding hours. The near-death experience I had visited upon one of the Brothers had ruffled a few feathers after the initial novelty had faded. I felt terrible after I had come to my senses. I could only blame it on my extreme fatigue.

Brother Tagliol was philosophical about the incident..."Brother Luminere will think twice before he crosses a woman, and thrice before he insults her man to her face!"

Bouchard himself had not said a word about the entire fiasco, and I fear he was embarrassed to be hauling about such a brawling female. I felt as feminine as yon rawboned, box-faced pony, who was at least easily recognizable as female by the number of exits under her tail!

The Tagliol home was a tall stone and timber townhouse located on a quiet street north of the older 'business district' of Croix-Luizet. Our host was a prosperous man, with a lovely, well-padded spouse and a multitude of children, all of whom were asleep in their beds when the cart pulled into the secluded courtyard before the stone and wood home. Brother Tagliol roused the stableman by way of kicking the man's door open, and his technique for waking his wife was no more subtle.

I strongly protested the need to bother his wife or servants…surely we could roll up in blankets before the hearth in an out-of-the-way room…but was hushed by Bouchard. I will admit…I took this amiss, and felt as if he had just delivered a severe set down. I felt wretched.

I was somewhat taken aback by the accommodation which we were given; a single large bed that had just minutes before contained three sleeping children.

Despite Bouchard's wishes, I protested to Madame 'Tagliol', struggling in my wringing French to avert the removal of her babies from their own bed, but was ignored by an increasingly vexed Madame. I lapsed into tired submission, wherein our hostess, smiling victoriously, set two of her maids upon me.

Neither understood English; I remained defeated by the fast-talking French tongue. However, I soon found myself clean, wearing what must have been the good woman's finest shift and wrapper, my hair carefully brushed and braided. Nothing could make the garments cover me much below the knees, nor hide the fact I was far narrower in frame.

I was ushered into the bedroom, finding Bouchard seated in a comfortably overstuffed chair before the fire. Once Brother Tagliol and his wife had assured we were content, they bid good night and the bedroom door closed with a business-like 'snick'.

A jug of warmed cider, toasted bread and preserves, and small winter apples were set upon a tray at the end corner of the bed. Bouchard was sipping cider, paring slices from an apple. I was amused to see he wore a nightshirt sized to fit our host, looking lost in a profusion of blue-striped linen, naked shins and ankles glowing pale in the dim light.

Moving the tray to the rug before the fire, I sat primly at his feet, sipping at the spicy cider and sharing peach preserve-slathered toast with him. Once the toast and cider were gone, I leaned back against his legs, shoulder against Bouchard's fabric swathed thigh. Neither of us spoke for a bit; I know I felt empty of any useful, coherent thought. Sleep was definitely what I needed, but the strength to lie down was wanting. Motionless in the deep, well-upholstered chair, long legs stretched out, Bouchard was no doubt feeling as pole-axed as I.

The waning fire provided a golden glow to the otherwise dark room, and shadows dipped and shimmied upon the walls in mesmerizing fashion. Vaguely I was aware my eyes had closed, and my body relaxed until my cheek rested upon the hard muscled top of Bouchard's knee. Thoughts rippled and surfaced, like the large orange and black carp in the Queen's Fountain at Brighton: thoughts of home and Mudkins…thoughts of Chanson and Xavier…thoughts of Erik de'Carpentier…

In a space of momentary lucidity the thought struck, 'We have been put in the same room…'

"_**Good Lord, Bouchard, you told them we are married**_!" The sound of my own voice actually woke me, although I believe I said it in normal timbre. It certainly did not warrant Bouchard's precipitous reaction of practically detonating within the chair, driving his bony knee up into the side of my head.

"**Sacŕe Dieu!** Azz…er…Anna, tranquillité _s'il vous plaît_!"

Rubbing my painfully struck ear, I looked up and scowled at Bouchard. "And kindly stop referring to me as 'Anna. Could you not have done better than that?"

His hand wavered near my head, as if to offer succor for my injury; I slapped at it and shot him an outraged glare.

"Madame Phantom, you need to develop a softer voice. As for the…'Anna'…please realize that I was working under…some stress…"

"Well…I hope you are sleeping in the chair, _**Lord Phantom**_, as I have no interest in playing slap and tickle all night with my 'husband'!" I could not stop a wide, jaw-cracking yawn.

It was his turn to growl and glare balefully, "Madam, I would never take advantage of this situation. And I had good reason for declaring you my wife."

Settling back into the chair, his brow remained low over his eye, although his face relaxed. I had moved to a circumspect distance from his leg, and noticed the nightshirt was now rucked up to where I could see a small length of the closest thigh. Gently, I tugged on the hem, pulling it down his leg. Good heavens but he was thin!

"I am sorry. It was uncalled for, and I humbly apologize." I peeked upward, to see what affect my apology had. Bouchard was staring into the fire, his face blank, thoughts far away…

I stuck my index finger between his first and second toes, eliciting the delightful reaction of gaining his full attention. "However…I do wish we would have discussed the idea of being leg-shackled _**first**_. If I am to be punished for striking Brother Luminere, I do not wish you to be tied to me…"

Bouchard's face remained impassive, but his voice bore more than a little annoyance. "Butler, nothing will happen to you as long as you are thought to be my wife. My tie to you is _your_ protection..."

"Perhaps you have noticed how very little I _care_ for 'protection' _my_ _Lord_!" Feeling a bit annoyed myself at his tone, I snarled the putative title...

"And _perhaps_ you will note how very much it means to _me_ that you are protected!" Although we spoke just above whispers, his voice was now fierce, and the face he turned to me was dark with intense emotion.

I dropped my eyes. I was just too tired to argue. "I…" herein I could not stop another yawn, "…I need to sleep." Rising wearily, I grabbed up the quilt folded at the bottom of the bed, wrapped my body in it, and made myself comfortable on the thick rag rug before the fire.

I do not remember my head touching the hearthrug beneath …nor being unwrapped, carried to the bed and the counterpane pulled to my chin.


	43. Chapter Forty Two

I want to thank all who have put this story on 'alert', as well as those who have it set as a favorite! I am…humbled. It is your feedback that sends me into a WRITING FRENZY, however, so if you would be so kind…?

**Chapter Forty Two**

I roused from deep slumber at the sinful hour of ten past ten of the morning. Bouchard was already gone; I could see the other side of the bed had never been occupied. The quilt I had wrapped about myself was neatly laid in the chair, where I have no doubt 'Brother Phantom' spent his night.

I washed and dressed in the only 'proper' clothing I had packed in my saddlebags, one of my former work gowns, a light dove grey possessing no virtue other than it packed well and vigorously resisted wrinkling. Seeing my pale countenance reflected in the aged mirror hung low over the washstand, I pulled my lovely paisley shawl out, wrapping it loosely about my shoulders. I remembered how Bouchard had admired its bright colors on me…

With my hair properly pulled back and pinned high atop my head, and the paisley shawl across my shoulders I looked as much a proper married lady as I would ever achieve. I could only hope no one noticed I had nothing but my tall riding boots to wear.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Madame Tagliol frowned mightily at my dress, but I _believe_ was most complimentary of the shawl. She and two Tagliol daughters were on their way out, leaving several smaller children with a harried nursemaid, so I was left to nibble toast and drink overly-sweet chocolate alone…a circumstance I welcomed. I had no idea where Bouchard was, and had not thought to ask Madame.

Finally inquiring of the maid who hovered in the hallway throughout my progress through breakfast, ("_Monsieur…ah…Fan__tôm? __S'il vous plait?_") I was directed to the _bibliothèque_ on the second floor. There I found Bouchard lounging comfortably in a deep leather chair in a spacious room overlooking the kitchen garden and stables. It was a pleasant room, filled with light from a long wall of tall windows, redolent of leather and beeswax and the bewitching scent of books. Books, however, were apparently not the primary focus of the room, the bookshelves being but partially populated thus. Instead, a collection of porcelain dolls and china figurines filled one rank behind the heavy desk, and another was devoted to half-full liquor bottles, stemware, and an amazing collection of lead crystal glassware. About the room's remaining bookcases were periodicals in several raggedly arranged stacks, a plethora of children's books with frayed coverboards and well-worn pages interspersed with wooden toys neatly ranked, as well as several handsome sets of gold-embossed classics.

Bouchard had found something of interest to read, the cover utilitarian blue canvas, the book both wide and tall. The title was in a foreign language and exceedingly wordy, although I recognized 'Vetro' which is Italian for 'glass'. I added to Bouchard's growing list of abilities that of reading, as well as speaking Italian.

Having pulled a fat, malodorous cheroot from his teeth, he peered through a haze of smoke to say "Good morning, Madame." I waved my hands before my face, and hastily walked to the windows to open several. "I thought we agreed you needed to be a much healthier specimen before you could poison your lungs on those things?" I stayed at the last window, breathing the fresh air. It was fragrant with two of my favorite scents: Lilacs and aged horse manure.

Bouchard's voice was a lazy drawl. "It was most persuasively pressed upon me by our host. How churlish would you have me be?" His expression was that of an affable tiger. "Did you sleep well?"

"I would have been as happy on the floor, or the chair…but yes, I did. _Please_ put that smelly thing out!" I fanned furiously at the drifting smoke.

Stubbing the cheroot out in the wide bronze tray beside his chair, Bouchard shot one disgusted look my way, and returned to his book. His entire demeanor said, 'nagging harpy'.

This was not going well. I fretted at the windows for several moments, wondering how I was to apologize to Bouchard for my ill humor without sounding…ill-humored. Selecting a children's picture book off one of the shelves, I sat upon the small divan before the windows. Leafing through, I found the pictures dull and began redrawing each one in my head, adding elements of whimsy to better catch a child's interest. I understood the French sentences quite well, however.

A knock on the door heralded a very young housemaid inquiring if we would like tea. Bouchard answered her inquiry with, "Tea? Nasty stuff. Have you coffee? No? Then go away."

I sat quietly but smiled at the wee maid to soften my Lord Phantom's curt response. After the door had closed I added sotto voice "Why yes, I would adore a cup of tea. Thank you for inquiring, Monsieur Bouchard!"

I was ignored. Apparently we were not now speaking. I wandered among the leather-bound volumes, looking for diversion, returning to the divan with a battered gazetteer of Lyon and the surrounding environs.

Some while later as Bouchard perused the shelves next to the door, a knock upon it next to his shoulder provided a diverting display of the classic startle reflex. Jerking the door open to reveal the equally startled little maid, and churlishly growling, "We do not wish any damned tea!"…was not amusing. I immediately told him so.

Bouchard swung his head, glaring; primly I reminded him, "Being rude to the servants is senseless, sir. The child was sent here to see to our comfort by the lady of the house. You have probably given the poor girl the vapors and she'll be turned out of her job!"

He was unrepentant. "She will first relay our emphatic lack of interest in _tea_ to the lady of the house. This makes perfect sense to me." Picking up another large journal, he returned to his chair, falling gracefully into it, angling his body away from me.

I sat for as long as I could, then returned to the windows, watching one of the many Tagliol children (I think) lead a smaller sibling about on a near twin of the skinny pony mare. Bouchard put his books back in the shelves, and began aimlessly wandering about the room.

I returned to the divan, and my eye was drawn to the large painting hung above the wide oak framed fireplace. It was of a foxhunt, a panoramic done in the primitive style, with horses jumping coops and stiles willy-nilly, their riders looking either fierce or frightened witless. The dog pack fanned about, following scent trails that obviously lead them everywhere at once. The fox, done in an oversize fashion, sat preening himself atop an overlook, supremely happy with the mayhem he had created.

At center bottom a blood-bay hunter stretched mid jump over a hedge amidst a double brace of surging hounds, the rider atop balanced precariously over the saddle whilst holding tophat, crop, and reins in hand. It was this that drew my eye…and sent me into overwhelming homesickness, longing for all I had left behind. I missed my former life…

The handkerchief in my sleeve was used swiftly and surreptitiously whilst Bouchard fiddled with a child's wooden toy wagon on the library table. As he rolled it ruminatively back and forth between his hands, I pulled myself together. Looking again at the children's book, I called to him gently. "Please, come sit down beside me, Bouchard. I will attempt to read this silly French primer and you can correct my pronunciation, and we shall both be entertained."

I was ignored. He returned to striding around the room.

"Surely you do not expect to march about the perimeter for…however long we need wait? Your pacing is giving me a headache." I smiled teasingly at him, only to receive a long, dark look.

The man apparently wished to spend the morning prowling the library, scaring the maids, and galloping roughshod over my nerves and humor.

As our privacy was now assured, I switched strategy, suggesting we might talk. "I believe we should plan what we will do once the Brotherhood have done whatever they will for us. At the very least, tell me who is pursuing us!"

Bouchard's response was to move to the windows, again disregarding me outright. Feeling my face grow warm with vexation, I abandoned the divan and moved to stand beside him, again fielding the suggestion, with a great deal more determination. "I would feel much better if we would discuss this. Time is something we have now, but once we have seen the King…" I laid on hand gently upon his forearm in appeal.

Bouchard turned to glare at me; I was startled at his overt hostility, snatching my hand away. Was this over a smelly cigar, or my reprimand at his lack of manners? I returned his chilly look with a narrow-eyed one of my own, at which he immediately turned back to the windows.

The clear light fell across his left face, accenting his large, straight nose and strongly molded chin, the modeled cheekbone and jaw, and wide, intelligent brow. His lips curved faintly, parted in unconscious amusement at something he watched below. The bruising about his eye had settled in the tissues just above his cheekbone, turning storm-cloud colors in the process.

He took my breath just to look upon him. The rush of emotion that coursed through my body made my knees weak, and heart stutter in my chest.

Regrettably, I was becoming accustomed to such sensations, triggered by so little as the smallest touch of his hand. Despite all…the murders of dear Chanson and Xavier…the beatings of the Gadreaus…the knowledge Bouchard's life was in greatest danger…even my suspicions concerning 'Jerrod Bouchard'… None of it could dampen the sheer intoxication of having him here…with me, thrown together in peril as we were.

I was 'love sick. I would not deny the growing desire to have him always at my side. There was a sense of disbelief in the very idea I could feel such emotion…of wanting to touch him and merge my humble body with his. Always I had been alone, separate, a thing apart. Never before had I experienced such desire to stand close, drop all defenses, allow him to see who…and surely what…I was.

Bouchard swung away from the window and began another circuit of the room; I returned to the divan, following him with my eyes. Sick at heart, I realized just how tied to him I had become. If not yet totally dependent, without him I would be just as lost…in so many ways. If only I had the courage to bind him to me, as women had done since Eve fled the garden, clothed in shame…poor, confused Adam stumbling beside her.

The accord so recently found between us had vanished; there was now the sense of divergent purpose. I had become naught but a complication to Bouchard; his sole purpose in coming to Croize-Luzet was to leave me here in protective custody. He would then deal with his dangerous pursuer without the noisy, demanding 'complication' underfoot.

_Why did he not feel the same panic I did at the very idea? Why was he so utterly blind to the disaster his thinking would bring upon us both?_

Did he not see our paths must be as one, my footsteps beside his? How could he think to leave me 'safe' within the enforced hospitality of the Brothers of the Glass whilst he faced this sadistic menace alone!

_We would both perish. _

And I was helpless to stop him short of sticking my Sheffield in his face, refusing to leave his side. A foolish thought…he need only call my bluff…

But I could refuse…I could _demand_…

"Butler, why are you frowning?"

Jerked abruptly from my dark thoughts by his voice, I was surprised to see he had stopped his pacing and stalled, arms tucked about his chest, at arm's reach from my knees. I looked up into his forbidding countenance and smiled faintly. "I am feeling…homesick, Bouchard." I cast my eyes to the foxhunting painting above the desk and back to his face. Better he did not know my true thoughts…

For a moment his mask of cynical irritation held, as his eyes slipped from mine to my hands, wrestling fitfully in my lap. "You are not an accomplished liar, Butler." He then smiled slightly, saying, "I hear your troubled mind, _mon petite_. I meant what I said last night…no matter what happens to me, you will be safe."

Heatedly, I snapped, "Then your 'hearing' is impaired, Monsieur!" The implication of his statement, the confirmation of my suspicions, hit like a blow to the chest. I could only gasp, "I am not frightened of the man who hunts us!"

And suddenly Bouchard was on his knees before me; he cradled my hands gently in his, running his large thumbs soothingly across the backs. "I will make sure you are returned to England, Aislyne! I ask that and they _cannot _deny me! That is why you are my wife…it is the way of the Brotherhood that the… the family is always cared for."

"We are _not_ married! They owe me _nothing_!" Leaning forward I enunciated forcefully, "And I will not go back to England…I will not go anywhere without you!" Jerking my hands free, I threw myself back, away from him. Bouchard rocked back to sit on his heels, his brow lowering. "Aislyne, you cannot possibly understand…"

"How can I understand when you tell me…_nothing_! I have no clue as to who…or what…he is. Tell me! Oh, damnation!" At the return of his stubbornly closed expression, I gestured with my hands, as if pushing him away. I was warming, quite literally, to my sense of betrayal, and felt my cheeks glowing with distempered heat. Wishing to hide my telltale face, I made to rise…only to be firmly pushed back onto the divan, Bouchard's hands grasping my shoulders.

"Aislyne, this is something that concerns only me. This…man is a part of my ignoble past, and I have no wish for you to be involved. _You will…__**y**__**ou will**_** do as I ask in this!"**

My response was contemptuous silence; my expression told him exactly what I thought of such a demand. We glared at one another, locked into a contest of wills; he battered at my resolve with the sheer force of his.

Yet I knew I was right! My determination grew, bolstered by the knowledge…_the conviction_…he would damn us both if given his way! Shoving against his hands, I rocked forward into his hard, angry face. "This does not 'just' concern you, _Jerrod!_ That madman will kill you…and then he will come for _**me**_. We are stronger together, you NEED me with you. I do not know why, but _**this I know**_. You will sacrifice yourself for nothing, and leave me to defend myself from this…this monster…without the slightest chance of doing so!" I wanted to grab him and shake him…

His face remained closed, but his eyes told me I had shaken him with my words. It was hopeless nonetheless; I might as well speak to the brick fireplace. Beyond infuriated, unwilling to just hit him, I cast out the vilest thought I could find, hissing it into his face…

"Or perhaps I am to serve as diversion…the tethered goat among your unsuspecting brothers, while you slip away to safety!" Each word was pushed past my teeth…bitter, vile. Hateful.

All color washed from Bouchard's face and the brutal hardness with it. Stricken, we stared at one another. The venom of my own words sickened me. I knew only too well where such thoughts originated, and I cursed my inability to control my self-destructive nature.

Bouchard dropped his hands to his sides, yet his gaze still clung to mine. Voice hoarse with shock, he gasped, "My God, tell me you do not think that of me!"

Eyes burning, I swallowed convulsively past the vast lump that filled my throat; I could only whisper, "_No_. I do not…I do not!" Shamed at my loss of control, I covered my hateful mouth with my hands, as hot tears ran along them. Bouchard watched me, eyes wide, a blush of healthy resentment slowly erasing the shock and hurt.

Gulping, I hastily wiped at my cheeks with my fingers. "You must listen to me Bouchard! I know it sounds irrational…I FEEL these things… You cannot just send me home, hide me in a convent, shut me in someone's attic. I will be no safer, and you…you _need_ me with you. If only I could explain…"

Bouchard tilted his head back, stared at the ceiling, as if in supplication to the Almighty Himself. "Aislyne, I have a very safe place for you…absolutely, you will be protected…I would not do this otherwise."

"No! I will not allow this…**I will not!"** Rocked anew by his words, my voice sounded terrible…brittle and unsteady. I grabbed his shoulders, intending to shake him, wanting to slap him…only to find I had slid off the divan to my knees, and thrown myself against him, my arms about his neck. "I will not go, damn you! **I will not!**"

For an instant he seemed to resist, his hands pressing at my waist to push me away. Then his arms encircled me, and the feeling of his large, warm hands upon my back, pressing me closer made me giddy. Near swooning in the feel of him in my arms, I clung to him, wanting to speak, to say things I had never hoped ever to... All too soon I was released.

Pulling my arms from around his neck, Bouchard held my gaze, whispering, "This is madness, Aislyne."

The door to the parlor burst open to reveal an agitated Madame Tagliol, two maids standing behind her, peering over her shoulder, and a young boy standing before her wide skirts.

To find us kneeling on the floor in such sorry state was likely a shock, but undaunted, the good Madame plowed onward, speaking in French briefly, one declarative sentence. The deed done, she turned on her heel and marched away.

Bouchard rose fluidly to his feet, and then assisted me up off the floor. "It appears we have a visitor."

The maids were still at the door, murmuring and watching us in blatant fascination. The boychild, dressed in dungarees and a rough blue shirt, stood before them, practically dancing in place with impatience.

I repaired my face with my handkerchief whist Bouchard stepped to the door to speak with the boy. Message received, he tipped the boy with a coin, and closed the door in the maids' avid faces.

For several moments he stood facing the door. Anticipating important news, I watched him, albeit, his back. He seemed to be deliberating, head down, looking to his boots for counsel.

As I admired the thick fall of his hair as it fell away across his right cheek, I also noted the back curling from contact with the collar of his shirt. Could it be time for a trim so soon?

Bouchard's shoulders, bowed in contemplation, shifted and straightened, and his head came up. He flexed the fingers on both hands, and drew them to his sides, fisted. Abruptly he turned on his heel, the right side of his face foremost, his eyes cool.

He stepped towards me, graceful as a stalking cat, and declared, "My plans have not changed, despite your feminine wiles, Madame."

It was as if the last precious moments between us had never happened. I was again but a 'complication'.

I was undeterred. "You are mistaken, _my Lord Phantom_. _Everything has changed_."

Moving past him I jerked open the door and left him standing there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was requested to join the family at their afternoon meal personally by Madame Tagliol. If she had anything to say regarding my red, puffy eyes, she quite wisely kept it to herself. I was in an unsteady mood, and did not relish polite conversation or the effort of acting properly servile towards my 'spouse'. Thankfully, he was not joining us, no doubt plotting my future '_durance vile'_ over a tray in his room.

The family consisted of Madame Tagliol, her elderly mother, and two of the older girls. Brother Tagliol was still at his shop.

The polite discourse across the table between the young Tagliol women and Grandmother faded in and out of my comprehension. I was sorely confused by the past hour's emotional steeplechase, and perhaps I missed a question or two directed my way. Finally, I forced my eyes above my plate, realizing I was being unforgivably rude.

That there was trouble between Brother Phantom and his dowdy English wife was obvious to the Tagliol women. I received many sympathetic looks, and Grandmother patted my hand constantly throughout the meal. As we progressed from savory to salad to the soup, I was offered a great deal of advice as well, couched in terms as basic as the children's book I had enjoyed in the library. I nodded and smiled as I thought necessary, and after a particularly effusive spate of French by Madame, I made incoherent excuses to my uncomprehending but sympathetic hostess and family, and fled to the bedroom to seek a few moments to myself.

No doubt Madame Tagliol was puzzled over the speed with which husband and wife had gone from warm embraces to my teary-eyed misery. In this I could understand her very well.

The message delivered by our youthful messenger was that our meeting with the Glass King was to be held at the sixth hour of the afternoon, following the closing of the workshops for the day. Prior to that we would tour a few of the glassmakers' shops.

I was given this information by way of a scribbled note, stabbed through with a hatpin into the crown of my ragged hat, carefully propped upon the bed. My saddlebags were set there also, beside which were my trousers and blouse, both freshened with a hot iron, as well as the undershirt and folded length of Irish linen. I wondered if Madame's maids had told her of my chest-wrapping, or confided how very little I had to conceal,

The near-empty moneybelt I slipped into the very bottom of one side of the saddlebags, next to the single-shot Colt and the heavier Sheffield. What little money left therein was in either English script and coin, or 5-franc notes and franc coins, all of which constituted what was left of the modest amount I had brought with me to France. I had left all of the travel funds with Emanuel, with explicit direction as to their use, confident he would do as I asked. Of course, at the time I had thought Chanson would be there to insure his compliance, as well as gentle Thom to help with the horses.

Pushing my thoughts from that particular direction, I wondered instead what was left of the generous stack of five-franc notes included in the wallet given Bouchard on the day we fled Paris.

My tweed coat I tucked into my saddlebags along with my freshened clothing and toiletries. I strapped the _sgian dubh_ to my thigh under my skirts, unwilling to go anywhere unarmed.

Bouchard's leather satchel sat ready by the door, and I placed mine next to it; with a stab of remorse, I wondered where he was now.

Some time later, the wee maid appeared in the doorway with news the carriage was here for Monsieur and Madame. It took a moment to tug and shift my grey gown back into place, hand pressing any creases. I did not wish to appear as if I had spent the past half-hour lying across the bed, meditating on my many sins. I placed the paisley shawl across my shoulders.

The little maid met me in the hallway and led me to the parlor, where I found the entire family, sans Brother Tagliol waiting to see us off. There was no Bouchard, however. I therefore thanked everyone effusively, stuttering over _'merci beaucoup'_ badly enough to start the little Tagliols giggling.

Bouchard appeared at the foyer door, face impassive, and tortured grey fedora, well brushed and reshaped, spinning through his long fingers. He had changed into a clean chambray shirt, and wore an unfamiliar black neckcloth tied loosely about his neck, a touch of elevated style from his former life. The disreputable grey wool jacket was over his arm. It was a far cry from the formal black he seemed to favor.

Bouchard gave a very pretty speech about hospitality and the lovely women of Brother Tagliol's home. At least, I believe that is what he said. Turning to me, he growled "Come," and playing the dutiful spouse, I went.

Handing me up into the carriage, his long fingers wrapped securely about mine, clinging for just a moment. Once he was seated beside me, he again took my hand, holding it for the entire trip across Croix-Luizet to the center of the glass manufacturing quarter. I am ashamed to confess to the comfort the gesture gave me.


	44. Chapter Forty Three

**Chapter Forty Three**

Brother Potash was our tour guide, an incongruous name that stood for one of the main ingredients added to the powered silica in the process of the glassmaking. All of the Brothers' names, I discovered, stood for some ingredient, process or instrument used in the manufacture of the glass. Brother Tagliol was named for a type of wooden paddle used in forming the glass. Brother Lehr was named for the annealing oven, Brother Borselle for special tongs, and so on. When I asked the genesis of Brother Phantom's sobriquet, Bouchard murmured "Patience, _mon ami_."

The shops were divided by the process they used, which invariably had everything to do with what kind of glass they produced. There were a few who produced a constant inventory of commercial glass, such as the molded bottle maker, several plate glass producers, and two who put out simple glassware, such as tea plates and cups, drink glasses, pitchers and so forth.

The bottle plant was very organized with every step of the process done in sequence, and several men doing identical tasks at every step, from loading the glass mix, of silica, soda, lime and calcium into the first oven, to drawing out the molten glass into the forms, and the final polishing and smoothing. Brother Lattimo, one of the proud owners, who also worked at regulating the ovens, was most eager to show his new method of production to Bouchard. Bouchard gave him every bit of his attention, asking questions and admiring both types of bottles in that day's run…but I noticed he was loath to stand in the full light, and kept his hair covering his right cheek.

I was given one of the bottles just pulled from the final wash as a souvenir. Square with a short neck, colored a dark greenish color, it was called a 'nostrum' as it was used by regional brewers of health infusions to bottle their wares. It held approximately 12 ounces of fluid, and came complete with an ornate waxed cork. I was surprised and pleased with the gift, although I blushed with shame…not pleasure…when welcomed to the 'family' of Glassmen's Hall.

The next two shops were of the more decorative style glass, utilizing the blown and pressed glass method of production, and additives to add livelier color to the glass. The main items produced were glassware for table and parlor, and large, decorative items such as vases and platters, and so forth. This glassware was made in 'runs', also, but each item was the result of using the traditional blowpipe to produce a bubble from a lump of molten glass. The bubble was then rolled in colored glass powders (called 'frit') or over pieces of other glass, hand or press shaped, and manipulated in many different ways to bring about the desired results. There were five individuals producing nearly identical pieces in the second shop…an amazing feat of skill and coordination.

It was in the second shop, Françoise Verre, that Bouchard earned his name, by his development of a glass-working tool called a 'phantom'.

Brother Jacks (a tweezer-like tool, made in myriad sizes) pointed to one being used as we walked by the busy workstations before the triple-gaped 'Bouche d'Enfer' where the glass was reheated while it was being worked.

The 'phantom' attached to the bench wheels mounted on the strong wide arm at each of the work stations. Bench wheels were used to ease the effort of keeping the rod spinning while the glass bubble was being worked; the rod needed to spin continuously at times in order to keep the softened glass from sagging and collapsing.

Turning at a steady, measurable and adjustable rate of spin, the phantom was powered by weights that slowly descended on chains set inside channels along one wall. It meshed via gear wheels with the front set of bench wheels, which in turn were coated with a surface that 'grabbed' strongly upon the rod. The rod was thus kept spinning, at the desired unvarying rotations per minute as long as needed, be it two minutes or ten. It was disengaged or re-engaged by tapping a foot pedal that released a grab plate from its tight position against the flywheel. Each machine ran continuously for up to six hours before the weights needed reset at the top of the channels.

This marvel was carefully explained to me by Brother Jacks, in terms suited to the young child…or clueless female. I listened attentively, and then turned to Bouchard, who stood in the shadows, grinning widely.

Indicating the point of origin for each chain drive, I asked Bouchard…"Is that a Graham's escapement? The action seems far too smooth…"

Bouchard pushed off from the wall and moved to stand behind Brother Jacks…still careful to keep his right face from direct sight. Dropping a hand upon Jacks' shoulder Bouchard leaned to his ear, "Beware of clever women, Brother, as they never let you forget the fact."

Nodding once to me, he responded, "That is a modified Graham's escapement. I used a pinwheel with curved pins to smooth the action of the pallets, and therefore, the feed of the chain."

"I see." I fanned myself against the extreme heat produced by the ovens and the look of sullen mortification on Brother Jacks' face. I was thankful I had foregone wearing the tweed coat.

All of the shops were extremely warm beneath the firebrick overhang to the ovens, and the wooden ceiling from there backward. The shops were basically 'open air' as solid walls did not surround the areas near the ovens or any of the hotwork benches, for health and safety reasons. However, most of the shops had wide-slatted louvers that adjusted to block dangerous drafts from critical working areas, and sliding wooden screens in others. It was a clever system, suited to the changeable climate.

The final shop visited was _Atelier du Verre __Rose_…a very grand name for a studio that produced visions of beauty…art glass in the purest sense. There was no 'production' for the day, or lot of like pieces, here. Instead, artists who had chosen glass in it's many forms as their medium of expression paid a stipulated amount to the shop for use of ovens, benches and basic supplies. The studio offered access to several of the local galleries, and hosted public showings four times a year. The studio was booked solid for the next year in advance.

I was given this information within the first five minutes of walking through the black iron and glass portal that opened to a modest gallery for 'Studio Rose'. The piece front and center, set upon a tall black iron stand, was one crimson rose, much oversized, made of velvety opaque glass. Each petal and leaf were realistic, the feathery stamen and pistils peeking from deep within the center bud…and the entire rose was encased in a sphere of clear, unblemished glass.

No sooner had we stepped through the entrance to the quiet office beyond the gallery but we were met by Brother Aventurine, a ebullient, elderly gentleman whose English was that of a native. Upon seeing Bouchard, Brother 'A' smiled widely, displaying an impressive rack of healthy teeth, and grabbed Bouchard by the arm, shaking his hand, and patting him upon the shoulder simultaneously. Bouchard looked vastly surprised…and subtly pleased.

"You **have** returned! Always, I knew someday you would have to! And here you are, a welcome…wonderful sight for these old eyes!"

Too soon I was introduced, and again I felt my face flame in humiliation at the lie, but was swiftly afforded the same sweetly generous greeting. "A beauty, my son, and indeed, how could you pick otherwise! A fine English rose!" I did not correct him.

I again noted Bouchard kept his left side to Brother Aventurine, and inconspicuously shook his head so that the long fall of hair swept across the right. He acted shy, and I could see he was watchful, bordering on anxious… a remarkable expression for Jerrod Bouchard. Watching him, it occurred to me perhaps Brother Phantom had never before shown himself as 'openly' as he must do now.

Brother Aventurine, however, apparently saw nothing beyond the presence of a man to whom he felt a great deal of affection. Ignoring Bouchard's sotto-voiced objections, he coaxed him to every occupied workbench, to meet the five artists present at the time, introducing Bouchard as "the master artist and founding _patron _for _Atelier du Verre __Rose_."

I watched Bouchard's cheek suffuse with color, and his hand creep up to 'casually' hold his hair over his right cheek. Yet he did not pull away from Aventurine, nor did he treat the artists discourteously. Finally, at one station he seemed to relax enough to drop his hand…although he kept his face turned…and discuss the use of a tool in achieving the young artist's desired outcome.

That Brother Phantom was dressed roughly was of no account to these men; dressed rough or fine, they were all _artists_. Within minutes several of the young men working at the benches were listening as their _Patron_ described a technique for achieving a particular effect to one young man, Jules by name. Description became debate, and soon several had moved to stand about the piece under discussion. Bouchard was soon lost in guiding Jules through the process, unaware that when he knelt next to the bench and tilted his head to point out a refinement, his hair fell completely away from his cheek.

No one seemed to notice, least of all Bouchard. All eyes were on the water-soaked wooden puffer and molten glass. As Bouchard moved his long fingers to illustrate the movement, Jules mimicked, and the glass accepted its fate without fuss. Sounds of male surprise and approval immediately filled the room, and Bouchard stood up, cheek again flushed, this time with pleasure…

I had seen this happen to Bouchard once before…while standing amongst a mass of ill-dressed musicians in the shopping district of Vioux Lyon. If only he could forget himself more often like this...

And suddenly, I had a hand at my back, and we were moving swiftly through the shop, Brother Potash making noises about the time…

Brother Aventurine, walking by Bouchard's side, reported the Studio of the Glass Rose was vastly profitable for its investors. Those few, like himself, who also worked there in support of the artists, shared equally in the profits, and were all doing well. Brother Aventurine clasped my hands, ignoring Brother Potash's squeaks of dismay. "Your man's glasswork is genius…as you will see when you go to the Hall. It is a standing monument to his ability and artistry! But just as important, your husband has made it possible for many young men in Croix-Luizet and from across Europe to make their way as artisans instead of just glass workers. He…"

Firmly interrupting, Brother Phantom smiled at the elder Brother, and stepped closer, saying "And I am to understand that the ownership was transferred to you and Lady Daphne without delay?"

"Yes, yes, Brother…but we still are not sure what we are to do with double the profits! We have used a bit to buy new equipment…refurbish the ovens, other things also, but there is so much left! We could not, for the longest time, find you, and…

Bouchard interrupted quite briskly, his face grim, saying, "Brother, did I not give the studio to you and your lady, to do with as **you** see fit?" Bouchard loomed over the smaller man, his tone suddenly hard.

Brother Aventurine never turned a hair; bridging one eyebrow and leaning forward, he too spoke with attitude. "Yes, of course you signed Studio Rose to us, but we have no needs that require such an income. So…" Brother Aventurine returned to the vertical and smiled, "…so we have used it to improve the lives of the glassworkers' families. We built another school, and increased the size of the local infirmary. We now have a well-trained fire brigade. We have several community projects well in hand."

For a moment Bouchard studied Brother Aventurine, his expression unreadable. I noted the other men, as well as myself, stood stock still, watching the odd interchange. Then Bouchard nodded, and reached out to grasp Brother Aventurine's shoulder. "Then I gave the shop to the right man." Gently shaking the brother's shoulder, he added, "But it is still yours to do with as you see fit." Both men shared a look of mutual affection.

Brother Aventurine set his hand atop Bouchard's, still resting atop his shoulder. "Please come back soon, my son. We _need_ you here again."

Bouchard's face grew still; giving _Atelier du Verre __Rose_ one last long look, he turned and strode toward the doors that led onto the street and the waiting carriage. He did not look back, leaving Brother Potash to escort the 'wife' to the carriage.

Potash virtually propelled me out the door, and once we had reached the waiting carriage I fully expected to be just as firmly shoved within. However, the man stood back, allowing me to find my own way into the carriage…and whilst stepping up, I saw Bouchard hastily wiping at tears, his face twisted with grief.

Quickly reversing my progress, I spun about and splayed both hands upon Brother Potash's barrel chest, blocking the carriage door. I then posed the most ridiculous questions I could conjure at short notice: "Where is Venetian glass made?", "What happens if the glassblower inhales at the pipe?" and…my favorite…"Are any cows injured in the making of milk glass?" By the time I had finished with the man, he was convinced, I'm sure, that should I ever become lost in thought, it would take a dozen master trackers to find me.

Bouchard had his emotions well in hand upon my reentry into the carriage, followed by our tour guide. He greeted Brother Potash with sober courtesy, cutting one darkly amused glance my way, and then turned to the window. His grin remained, although he did not bother to share it with his companion or guide.

I too found myself avoiding conversation, the audience before us weighing heavily upon my thoughts. I expected questions would be asked, and I needed to be clear in my mind with the answers. As it had never been properly discussed, I decided to stick with the truth and ask God to guide our way.

Too soon we pulled into the graciously laid drive that swept past the Hall. The early dusk of late spring was upon us, the sky filled with golden fire from the westering sun, yet velvet shadows pooled beneath the trees. The Hall's broad vertical bands of earth-to-roofline glass blocks reflected the light, glowing within the rich setting of the rough bronze stone. The total affect was that of a jeweler's masterpiece, resting upon a broad swath of dark green velvet.

A master architect with rare vision had designed this building; an artist's eye had set it in place. Any doubts I may have clung to concerning the identity of that artist and architect were gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Brotherhood had built their Hall to serve not only as a meeting place, but also as a showcase for the artful glass they produced. The Hall was placed square within the glass district of the commune, surrounded on three sides by the glass manufacturing and artisans' shops that supported it. At some distance behind the Hall the ground sloped upward; beyond that were the crowns of the beech and ash trees bordering the Saône River, aglow with sunset colors.

In a small commune of perhaps 600 souls, the Brotherhood had built an edifice that towered in style, if not height, over every structure around it. Located in the center of a block of groomed grassland, a wide, smoothly laid drive swept up from the rough cobbled street to end before the Hall's brass and glass doors. These were located on the eastern side of the building, thereby leaving the dramatic glass-banded display facing the street unbroken. A spacious terrace filled the area between the drive and Hall, and at either end wide steps lead up to double entrances, set at opposite ends of the terrace. An island of small native trees and flowering shrubs was centered between the entrances, the bronze stone restraining wall dotted with opaque glass blocks. The entire effect was artistic, yet elegantly dignified, lacking the complex and fussy lines currently favored.

Brother Tagliol met the carriage before the Hall, fussing with Brother Potash regarding the time. It seemed Pelegius, the Glass King was expected momentarily, and we were late.

Stepping from the carriage I noticed brown-robed figures walking from their places of work, streaming up the wide drive and into the Hall. I noted with interest that once an individual neared the Hall, the hood was pulled up over his face.

Brother Tagliol and Bouchard displayed little of their former camaraderie; Bouchard was, in fact, nearly hostile. After pulling Potash aside to thank him for our tour, he grabbed my hand and started up the broad steps that lead to the closest entryway. Brother Tagliol abruptly left off scolding Brother Potash, and hurried to catch up.

The entry doors, massive brass and opaque glass constructions, were nearly ten feet in height and four in width, yet opened with the lightest of pressure and closed themselves neatly. I immediately noticed the huge glass dragons snaking up the inside surfaces of each door, and remarking them, Brother Tagliol nodded toward Bouchard. "Brother Phantom made these; a dragon for each door to guard our treasures." Tagliol gave the closest dragon an affectionate pat.

The dragons were grass green glass, with crimson and yellow details, seeming to rise from the thick glass plate inset into the doorframes of which they were all four an integral part. Each dragon was turning to look behind, as if to see who dared grasp the brass door handles, yet every one was different, in expression and posture. Their fierce faces were eye to eye with any adult at the door.

The detailing was so complete one would expect each dragon to slither off her door and head for the nearest cave to guard her treasure. I looked to Bouchard, searching for the words to express my profound appreciation for the beauty and artistry of such wonders. "These are magnificent."

He quietly nodded his head, but his expression was dismissive. Secretly dismayed at his response, I turned away and stroked the neck and back on the dragon closest. I felt as if Bouchard was distancing himself from all of this, his life and those things he felt important, and pushing me away as well.

Brother Tagliol seemed to come to his senses, and laying his hand upon my arm, gently coaxed me away from the lovely door. "We have no time for this! Please…" He pointed across the atrium, at another double set of doors, exclaiming, "We must not be late!"

Bouchard reached for my arm, and pulled me away from the frantic Tagliol, slipping my arm firmly around his.

As we crossed to the solid double doors, I took in as much as I could of the glass artifacts displayed along nearly every inch of the atrium's interior wall, in glass-fronted cases and grouped shelves. There were a dozen elegantly shaped vases the size of whiskey barrels, done in intense colors and vivid designs. Everywhere fantastic and lovely table settings and glassware shone, and an entire set of flatware, done in gold glass, was displayed. Examples of precision glass, ground to serve in optical tools, were showcased before the long front windows, using mirrors to reflect light through the lenses.

At some distance from where we stood, a wide swath of fiery faceted-bead curtains split the atrium, hanging behind a wall of massive colored glass globes hung from the ceiling on cables. Beyond the curtain of beads was a similar grouping of hanging globes, though they were much smaller and varied in size. The entire display caught the light and projected it upon the ceiling and walls in myriad fans of prisimatic color. I could catch but a glimpse of the treasures showcased beyond the globe-and-curtain divider in the other half of the atrium.

The atrium itself was finished in glass; the broad windows at either side of the entry were glazed in panes of glass, with a jewel-toned border surrounding each. The floor was glossy dark blue with jewel-colored glass tiles set in a pattern reminiscent of an impressionistic night sky full of revolving bright-colored stars.

A hooded Brother met us in the Hall atrium, relieving Brother Tagliol of further responsibility for us. We were briskly ushered past an austere office area, through tall, black lacquered doors. These opened upon a long elegantly appointed hallway, floored in stone in a baroque style of cross-and-corners that harmonized well with the burgundy moiré satin walls and glossy black woodwork. Three high arched openings were spaced along the inside wall, and our escort lead us through the closest. We passed down a long corridor…and suddenly stepped into vast, light-filled room. This was the inner sanctum of the Glassmen's Hall.

The interior was faced with the same bronze stone as the exterior, the glass block panels, two on each side, left uncovered to provide the brightly diffused light that filled the Hall. Overhead, an array of globed gaslit chandeliers hung from the ceiling, true marvels in their beauty and singularity. Beneath our feet was a fantastic display in bright glass of exploding suns and spinning stars set in midnight blue, with one large sunburst radiating bursts of color from the opposite end of the hall.

One continuous bank of risers curved about three walls of the Hall, four rows of individual seats upholstered in black leather filling them. At the back a gallery of four additional rows angled down the ceiling, curving to meet neatly with the ranks below. The affect was nearly that of an opulent indoor coliseum.

Nearly all the available seating was filled with individuals dressed in brown robes, raised hoods leaving their faces in shadow. Brother Tagliol had said there were over 300 members in the Glassmen's Hall, and I do believe every one was seated in this hall today. Their silence at our entry was eerily absolute.

At the front of the hall was a wide, square stone dais, and upon it were two stout, black upholstered chairs, a massive book set upon a stand, and one magnificently appointed throne, ornately bejeweled and heavily carved, upholstered in gold brocade. As yet no one sat there.

Our escort led us to the vivid yellow center circle of the large starburst inlaid in the floor, and walked away. We were now but a few strides from the empty dais at the head of the room.

Bouchard pulled his arm from beneath mine, but squeezed my hand gently before he let go. He then looked straight ahead, fixed his eyes upon the gem-encrusted throne, and grew the faintest of smiles upon his lips. I looked forward, and clasped my hands before me in self-comfort, hoping to calm my accelerating pulse. I was sorely tempted to request Bouchard sing…

Moments later, footsteps rang behind us, as a small group walked across the hall floor toward the dais. I again looked to Bouchard, who remained facing forward, undoubtedly oblivious of my presence now. I turned to the front and awaited events.

Passing on the left, three men walked to a set of discretely set steps, mounted the dais and moved to the waiting chairs. Only one of the men had his face uncovered; I assumed this was King Pelegius. He appeared unremarkable…a tad on the short side, but broad shouldered and well proportioned, with a wide forehead, and strong, noble features. His thick, graying hair was worn in a fashionably short, tousled style, but his face was heat-leathered, no doubt from working at the glass ovens. He was, I am sure, considered to be very handsome, and his manner was that of a man who agreed heartily with that assessment.

The three men assumed their seats. Bouchard bowed crisply, catching me quite off guard. I bent a knee and dipped my head, not sure at all I wished to give even that much to this person. King Pelegius acknowledged Bouchard's gesture with a languid nod, and, then, as if he felt my reticence, he turned an avid gaze upon me.

Our eyes met in mutual regard, wherein he leaned forward and I was reminded of Nadir Kahn's intense inspection. However, the path then taken by this man's eyes would have had me loudly expressing my outrage at any other time, and I felt my cheeks heat at the man's familiarity over my form. Gritting my teeth, I hardened my expression, yet followed Bouchard's lead. Silent and stoic, I ignored the boorish behavior.

Pelegius chuckled openly at my discomfort, and the hooded form at his right murmured in his ear. I glared at him too.

King Pelegius stood, as did every other person in the hall. From this point on nearly all speech was in French, and Bouchard translated for me infrequently. I was left to what little 'ear' to the language I had acquired…and that of my wildfire imagination.

A young man appeared from somewhere to the left, and whilst walking across the stage, he firmly drew his hood down, throwing a strangely defiant look at the King. Taking a position behind the stand holding the large book, he spoke loudly, saying, "This meeting is now called, and the book is opened." He then actually opened the large leather-covered book upon the stand, reading the date, hour and further details I did not understand clearly. Upon finishing, the young man drew out a pen and block of paper, and began taking notes.

The King sat, as did all in the room. All attention then returned to us.

The King spoke, his voice heavy with sarcasm. To my horror he said quite clearly…"Jerrod Bouchard…or should we say, Brother Phantom? And…_Mademoiselle_ Aislyne Butler."

I opened my mouth only to hear Bouchard quietly hiss, "Quiet!" I closed my mouth.

"Why are you here? What is it that you want from this Hall?" King Pelegius laid both arms upon those of his throne, and tipped his chin. I was still dealing with the idea that he…and therefore many here…knew who we were.

Bouchard moved one step forward, and said, "King Pelegius, I ask permission to answer." Pelegius laughed nastily. "I certainly did not expect you to sing and dance!" There was no sign that anyone else wished to join in the hilarity; the silence was absolute.

Pelegius sobered, saying "Speak." His face assumed an ill-tempered scowl, and it remained for the better part of our audience with him.

Bouchard looked forward, and spoke. "I am rightfully come before my brothers seeking aid. I have labored beside many of my brothers here, in the perfection of my craft and for the betterment of this artisan community. This hall stands in testimony to what I have given to the Brotherhood of Glass."

Pelegius' face became increasingly tight as Bouchard spoke. Suddenly he jumped from his throne and began screaming loudly. I actually stepped back, shocked.

"You forget, Phantom, that this is now MY Hall! I am liege and therefore, you have NO claim here!"

Bouchard's face grew stiff and although he dropped his head in acknowledgement of Pelegius' petulant declaration, his eyes sparked with anger. No doubt realizing any support must come from the brothers themselves, thereafter Bouchard revolved slowly so that he faced one side of the Hall, then the other, practically ignoring the men on the dais. His voice grew twice in volume, but remained warm and compelling. Giving in to his dramatic bent, one hand hovered eloquently then settled to cover his heart, the other outstretched to the men who sat to his right and left…

"I have been long absent from these walls, and I assure you, never would I have chosen the road I have walked these past years. But I have given my allegiance and my allowance, _as required by the laws of this Hall_, to the Brotherhood without fail. I consider myself a brother in good standing of this Hall, my fealty to the _original _mission and goal of the Brotherhood undiminished."

"I now come to my brothers asking for their help."

There were murmurs in the sea of brown about us, and a sudden flurry of motion as hoods were thrown back to show faces. I furtively glanced about, wondering at the significance of the hoods. Bouchard turned to stare at the dais and its angry occupant, who had again vacated his chair in order to better stalk about, glaring at Bouchard.

Whatever Bouchard was saying, it was not sitting well with King Pelegius!

Pelegius spoke, his face screwed into a spiteful sneer, "What help are we to offer you, Brother Phantom? Are there not already two men dead, murdered in the railcars in which you were traveling?" Crossing his arms, he snapped, "Explain that to me, Brother Phantom?"

Bouchard looked to me, then to the brothers about us. His voice was sober, yet it did not diminish in its emotional strength. "The murdered men were my bodyguards…and good men. Dietré Chanson was my friend; Thomas Xavier was no more than an untried boy. They died at the hands of those who would destroy me for daring to leave their backward, bloodsoaked country a lifetime ago and a half a world away."

Pelegius raised his hand, saying "You are saying then that it is not the French police that seek you?"

"No sir. There are those who hate me for escaping the brutal servitude forced upon me...a free citizen of France!...by their despotic king. Men must die and the lives of innocents…my bodyguards, this lady's maid…even that of the boy who cares for my horse!…must be shattered by violence, all to punish me. No, it is not the French police who seek me, as I have committed no crime!"

I could not help but admire the man's sense of the theatrical. Was it his heritage, or perhaps his youthful years spent living and working in the theatre? Whatever the reason, he was an orator born! Naturally, I had no idea, but had I but comprehended French, I would have better known the identity of the screaming madman who sought Bouchard.

Now turning me about to face the assembled men, Bouchard laid his hand upon my shoulder, again speaking in a very affecting manner in his native tongue. "I care nothing of my own safety; it is for this woman I seek your help. Mademoiselle Butler came from England, employed to…to return me to good health after my incarceration in the Rois Pour la Défectuosité, and to teach me how to go on as a member of society."

I caught _'Rois Pour la Défectuosité'_, and it was apparent the _Rois_ was _generally_ well known, even to those living in a small commune of Lyon. Upon revealing his incarceration, there were low-voiced exclamations, and a susurration of whispered conjecture slow to die away. Bouchard stood unspeaking until all had silenced. His hand still set upon my shoulder, he continued. "Yet she, too finds her life forfeit simply because she is tied in this way to me!" The hall rang with the echo of his voice, and not another sound. Bouchard eyes traveled among the growing number of uncovered faces in the audience of brothers about us, as if silently speaking to each one.

King Pelegius sat stiffly, his expression turning increasingly sour.

Fiercely Bouchard turned back to the King, squared his shoulders, and again filled the hall with his voice. "I am not a man of violence. Neither am I a man of peace, having never truly known any. However, I treasure the sense of fraternity that was here for me…despite my ungodly appearance…as a working member of the Brotherhood of Glass. My brothers knew me as a man who would happily live my life immersed in the labors of my art and music. I believe my deeds proved my committment to the canon of the Brotherhood to be as steadfast as any man here."

The absolute silence in the Hall was broken only by the faintest whistle, coming from the man beside me. He was becoming distressed; I suspected it was the realization that Pelegius' patent hostility did not bode well for us.

King Pelegius threw back his robe and stood to pace for several steps in both directions. "Yet there is that word, '_murder_', is there not? And the _Sûreté Nationale_ is most certainly seeking your '_companion_' Aislyne Butler as a suspect in the murder of these two men!" Pelegius' glance in my direction at the word '_compagnon_' was sarcastic. "I will remind you, Brother Phantom, that the Brotherhood does not excuse thwarting French law enforcement in their inquiries concerning the investigation of a crime."

Bouchard threw out his arm to clutch mine. "This woman is no murderer!"

King Pelegius turned his attention to me, saying in perfect English, "Then perhaps _**Mademoiselle**_ Butler would be kind enough to tell us _why_ the French National Police seek her for the murder of these two men?" He sat, and assumed a most spiteful smile.

I was shocked to hear the police sought me for this crime, oh yes! But before the last scornful word had left Pelegius' sneering lips, I had stepped forward; I knew questions would be asked, and I was prepared. Nothing was going to stop the quaver in my voice, however.

"I did **not** murder them! I found Dietré and Thom…within minutes after they were shot, at the place we had agreed to meet...the Pullmen on the east siding of the Lyon _Gere de Perrache_. Chanson…he was still alive, although mortally wounded. I stayed with him, and sent my maid, Anna, back to the station to seek help. I stayed with him until he…passed." I closed my eyes at this point, seeking strength, as I was shaking horribly. I felt Bouchard's arm at my shoulder, his hand under my elbow...

Lord Pelegius cleared his throat in warning, as if Bouchard might affect my testimony with his comfort…then said, "Mademoiselle Butler, if this man…Chanson was still alive when you found him, would he not have told you who was responsible?"

"Chanson knew only these two men were looking for Bouchard…he did not know who they were. He said, several times, we needed to run, to leave Lyon immediately. He had been shot a…a number of times…to coerce him into telling them where we were. _**They tortured him!**_ And he…he delayed them by giving them the wrong direction. Perhaps he thought he would still be able…to warn us if he…"

Ever the woman, the tears were sleeting down my face within a minute of speaking…and thinking…of Chanson's death. My nose then began to run. Embarrassed, I patted my sleeve, only to find I had forgotten my handkerchief. One immediately appeared before me; I looked to Bouchard, and was aghast to see he was fighting unmanly tears.

Gritting my teeth, I dried my cheeks and upper lip, and straightened my shoulders.

The hall was silent…not a cough or whisper to be heard. King Pelegius curtly motioned for me to continue… Drawing strength from Jerrod's strong presence at my elbow, I spoke as clearly as I could, to the entire room.

"Anna…my maid…fetched the rail station security people. I…I cannot remember the chief inspector's name. I was asked many questions, and sent to my hotel in a hack. Naturally, I gave him the wrong hotel, because I knew I would not be there…"

Pelegius interrupted, glaring with blatant disapproval. "You say you just 'happened' upon your dying bodyguards, mere moments after two strangers shoot them. And now these murderers pursue you, yet you run _from_ the police? Woman, we are not fools!"

Snapping his attention to Bouchard, he spoke again in French, his tone increasingly hostile and derisive. "I cannot help you, _Brother_ Phantom. We do not thwart the French police in their rightful duties, and we do not appreciate the violence this ill-tempered fishwife has visited upon one of our members! I have no doubt she is guilty of the murders of two French citizens. We will not help your '_companion'_ escape French justice!"

I caught enough to know there would be no help from King Pelegius. Bouchard's face tensed then became solid stone as the King spoke. I watched his hands become fists, and his left cheek redden with rage…he stepped forward, as if to threaten Pelegius.

Mayhem erupted in the hall as several hundred bare-headed brothers behind and beside us jumped to their feet and began shouting loudly. Several who still wore their hoods were being manhandled by their brethren.

I felt my chest squeezing as terrifying visions filled my mind. We would be restrained and handed to the police. We would be marched back to Paris. Bouchard would be…

Bouchard turned me to face the screaming brotherhood, many leaving their seats and heading for the floor, their faces murderous. Bouchard's breath was warm upon my ear, his voice clear and steady. "Aislyne, run. Go through the _left-hand doors leading into the atrium by the offices_ and wait. I will meet you there. Now, _run!"_

_~~~~~OoOoOoOoOoOoO~~~~~~_

Goodness Gooblies, I'm even on the edge of my seat! Please, please feedback!


	45. Chapter Forty Four

_If I have been over-slow to update, blame THIS chapter! It is a long one…nearly 7K words, two chapters. I have had the devil of a time with it. All these two want to do is fuss and fight! Can someone talk sense into them? I am at a loss! __I promise an additional chapter if feedback is generous. I have at least two more chapters close to posting besides this… How does that work? _

**Chapter Forty Four**

The look in Bouchard's eyes was as frightening as my thoughts; I did not question his urgent command. Spinning on my heel, I ran toward the left-hand bank of risers, filled with furious, shouting brothers, every one having thrown off his hood. Several groups of men were also on the Hall floor, their expressions wrathful, fists shaking toward the dais and the belligerent Pelegius. I avoided them, and none made any attempt to stop me, although several turned to watch as I galloped past them.

I entered the corridor beneath the left-side risers, ready to put up a fight should anyone attempt to stop me, but met no one, nor did anyone come in behind me. It was necessary to slow down on the glassy floor as the slick soles of my boots made it hazardous to maneuver at speed.

A steady 'boom, boom, boom' had begun overhead, the Brotherhood now using their stomping feet to drive home their message, discernable as a two-word chant: "_**Pelegius sortez**__!_" I wondered what Bouchard was doing…if he was caught up in the Brotherhood's revolt.

Stopping only to glance to both ends of the wide hallway, I crossed to the set of black double doors. Standing behind them, I was most reluctant to open them, an inexplicable sense of caution staying my hand. Bouchard had been very clear in his instructions…I was to wait by the offices until he arrived, and the offices were immediately _outside_ these doors. I was inclined, however, to wait for him _here_…

After a moment's reflection, I compromised; I carefully turned the large glass knob of the right hand door and opened it the tiniest bit. Putting one eye to the resulting crack, I looked out into the atrium, having a clear view of the area between this door and the dragon doors, exactly where I was to wait.

Standing just inside the dragon doors were three men in subdued blue uniforms, talking earnestly to an older woman behind the counter, who appeared to be most unhappy with them. She talked loudly in French and made shooing gestures, obviously intent upon sending them outside the Hall. They were similarly intent upon staying _inside_…

I pulled the door shut carefully, and started for the opposite end of the hallway, hoping to find an exit there, far enough away I could slip out without being seen. I reflected upon Bouchard's words…and knew I made no mistake in comprehension. He had clearly said, '_take the left hand doors'_. The only 'doors' in my path were the wide black enameled doors leading out into the atrium. And I could now remember exactly what he had said next: '_You will be met_.'

The uniformed men standing in the atrium had been very easy to identify by the wide insignia upon their sleeves, the _lion rampant_ upon a field of red and blue, ringed by the words '_Dépt de Police Lyon'_. And why would they be here, in this small commune? Had I done as Bouchard ordered I would have walked directly into their arms...

_He would not do this…please, God, no!_

The immediate need to exonerate Bouchard of having anything to do with the police standing in the atrium warred mightily against my sadly distrustful nature. No amount of rationalization could stop the growing tightness in my chest, however. Cursing my naiveté, I pushed into a trot, stoutly vowing I would escape, with Bouchard's help…or without.

At the far end of the hallway I found the identical black-enameled doors as hoped. My breathing had become labored as the constriction deep within spread; the growing fear of falling into the doubtful 'care' of the French National Police overwhelming me. Tales of fellow English travelers imprisoned by the French for minor offenses…or no offense at all…pervaded my thoughts. Even Bouchard spoke of the French willingness to convict for convenience without heed of guilt or innocence. Did he not say, "Call it French justice"?

Foolish tears dripped off my chin, tickling my nose with the usual result. Wiping them away with Bouchard's handkerchief…imbued as it was with the scent of his shaving tonic…served only to exacerbate the problem.

After a clumsy peek past the right-hand door and finding no one in view, I slipped through, endeavoring to avoid the attention of the police at the other end of the atrium. If not for the tumult in the Hall, my labored breathing would have surely brought them investigating.

Carefully easing shut the door behind me, I turned…and had to lean against it for a moment, clinging to the glass knob. My saddlebags sat waiting here at the opposite side of the Hall, handily passed through the wide strap of Bouchard's satchel. He meant to leave the Hall here…through the right-hand doors…having sent me to the left-hand to be apprehended, and held by the Lyon police.

Surely he had heard Pelegius state I was wanted for the murders of Chanson and Xavier; he had even defended me from the charge!

No! _He had not done this…_

Directly across from where I stood, the green and crimson dragons writhed hypnotically as silver sparks and exploding suns burst behind my eyes, distorting my vision. Oxygen deprivation had advanced to the point my failing senses turned the impressionistic floor into a whirling abyss beneath my feet. Undeterred, I staggered for the dragon doors; halfway I recalled my bags contained my money, the pistols, my travel papers…everything. I would require money and Louise's cards if I were to have any chance of getting out of France.

Turning back, I reeled and fell against a heavy cabinet as the floor beneath my feet bucked sideways, leaving me but a few feet from my bags. Too dizzy to move, I clung helplessly to the cabinet…and watched as the man himself backed through the tall black doors, pulling them shut and fiddling with a decorative panel on each.

He turned about, obviously pleased to find the bags set neatly beside the display. His expression froze upon finding me leaning unsteadily against a cabinet, becoming that of unmistakable horror, doubtless at the thought I would now expect his aid.

In that moment whilst staring into his wretched, beloved face, I felt the gentle touch of preternatural grace soothing all other emotions; I let go of everything…sanity, fear, hope…despair. I heard Erik de'Carpentier's words, spoken to me not at all so long ago; "…_this has always been my fate_."

Pointing in the vague direction of the dragon doors, I waved Bouchard on, gasping, "I will…be a…distraction. Go!" I watched through a rising haze of darkness as he grabbed the bags and moved to pass me…towards the dragon doors and freedom.

I closed my eyes unwilling to watch him leave, unable to separate the hitching agony of my straining lungs from the feel of my foolish heart shattering within my breast.

And then I felt nothing at all…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I find that Etienne Pelegius has changed little since I apprenticed at _Verre François_. He was an unimaginative, arrogant, do-naught then. I see no evidence of change in his character over the span of years I have been absent. I wonder how he became King, and further, has remained so long, despite the divisive affect in the Brotherhood. Several men have approached me today to speak of the disarray and unrest in the Brotherhood. Some have expressed their suspicions Pelegius is stripping the Hall's treasury, a charge that merits investigation. Of course, I can do nothing but listen.

At the moment, Pelegius is displaying his lack of maturity in the manner in which he constantly leers at Butler…and I am humbled by her self-control. I suspect he is doing it to antagonize me; it is working well. My hands can all but feel his fat, over-muscled neck in their crushing grasp…and I labor to concentrate instead on the matter at hand.

I remain mindful I am here to bring my case to the Brothers, appealing to those 347 men who surround us left and right, because it is an easy wager that I will receive no fair consideration from Pelegius. The man hates me as much now as he did twelve years ago, after the incident of the glass blocks.

As I speak, I see the hoods pushed back by those who will _openly_ support my request. Many faces I recognize; some I do not. But it is interesting to note how weak the support Pelegius has in this. An overwhelming majority could overthrow any decision he makes, and perhaps fuel a necessary challenge to his sovereignty, an event I have no intention of staying about to witness.

It is hard for me to believe he would be so intent on thwarting me that he will endanger his present position. Does he continue to hate me that much?

It is Aislyne's recall of the scene at the railcars that reassures me the plans I have made for her are all for the best, whatever she may think. Hearing the details of Chanson's death, I am overcome at the thought of his suffering. I mourn his loss deeply; he treated me as fairly as few men have, and proved to be a companion and friend the likes of which I doubt to know again.

I vow to avenge his death.

Pelegius is determined to put the 'deformed freak', as Luminere calls me, in his place. And I realize that even the obvious support of the Brothers cannot help us now…it will take too long, and time grows short. Aislyne must now pass into safe hands, and I will disappear entirely. I will find and deal with Hashim far better if I am invisible.

Pelegius rules against us, and the rebellion of the Brotherhood is immediate and deafening. Too many of the Brothers are unhappy with Pelegius; his decision against me is a spark set to dry tinder. Today I have discovered how much influence…and good will…I earned in the four scant years I lived and worked beside the men of the hot glass. It is now manifest by the numbers of unhooded men howling their demand for Pelegius to leave the throne. Someone shoves one of the yet-hooded Brothers, and suddenly…

I grasp Aislyne's shoulders and turn her to face the bedlam in the Hall's _theatron_. I speak very clearly into her ear; "Aislyne, run. Take the _left-hand doors_, and wait there, by the office. You will be met. Now, _run."_

Amazingly, she does as I ask without questions, spinning and handily racing to the back of the Hall, disappearing into the left hand passage that pierces the ranks of seating. I must trust Brother Aventurine's lovely wife Daphne awaits Aislyne, her part in insuring Aislyne's safety in hand. I turn to face Pelegius, who is presently too busy arguing with several glassmen, including Brother Tagliol, to notice Butler's flight from the Hall.

I suffer one momentary pang of guilt. I have taken Aislyne's saddlebags, having retrieved our bags while Aislyne expressed appreciation for the hospitality to the Mistress Tagliol. She will have no pistols or men's clothing, no travel papers…nothing, in fact, to identify her as being anything other than one of Brother Aventurine's older daughters, home for a visit. Brother Aventurine will insure she is sent to England as soon and safely as possible, and that the French police never find her.

Seeing that Pelegius is presently well engaged, I turn and make for the right hand passage out of the Hall.

Men are chanting and stamping their feet in rhythm, the result a low-timbered, continuous drumbeat that vibrates through the thick hardwood floors laid over the supporting stonework beneath the ranks of seats. It lifts the hair upon my neck, speaking as it does of the united power of the Brotherhood. I know they will drag Pelegius from the throne to march him to the physical edge of Croix-Luizet and send him off stripped of all but his small clothes and two centime; it is the common treatment of petty thieves, and a most fitting send-off for a man who has openly held this small community in disdain. He brought it upon himself, with his unconscionable rule of the Hall, using it as a hammer to crush his competitors and abuse those who would oppose his policies.

Groups of furious glassmen are down from the risers, standing in angry knots about the glass-tiled floor. A large contingent moves toward the dais, their expressions grim. They are, unfortunately, blocking my path out of the Hall. Several familiar faces turn my way, and calls of "Brother Phantom" ring across the floor.

One of the Brothers grabs at my sleeve as I slip through at the edges of the throng.

I dodge him, my hand up, and excuse ready. "One moment, please…the mademoiselle…" and I head for the right hand passage at a trot.

The hallway is unoccupied. I push open the double doors, turning about to shut them, and slide the panels that will engage the hidden steel deadlocks rendering them secured from inside the Hall. I turn to see the bags, sitting next to the glass gemstone display, as requested…

…And Aislyne Butler, deathly pale and wheezing loudly, tilted oddly against a cabinet. Immediately, she gestures me away and in a voice that is but a shadow of a whisper, rasps, "I will…be a…distraction. Go….go!" She pushes off from the cabinet, her expression resolute.

My eyes are drawn to movement through the wide windows across the front of the atrium; Brother Luminere is strutting importantly across the terrace, heading for the doors just behind Aislyne. On his heels are Hashim and three of his guards. A quick look across the terrace reveals a similar group lead by the Englishman already entering the opposite doors, a mass of uniformed men crowded inside the doors.

Aislyne again gestures _agitato_ for me to 'Go!' as her eyes become increasing unfocused and wide…I realize she is no longer breathing at all. She still stands, but as I watch, one leg folds, and she tilts precariously, hands slipping on the sides of the display case…

Striding forward, I throw our bags over one shoulder, and without slowing head for Butler. Her eyes roll dramatically upward and her knees collapse as I bend to grab her one-armed about the hips, allowing her to fall over my shoulder. I spin and run to the Gem Case; pressing my thumb firmly upon a specific spot in the ornately decorated façade causes it to swing forward, revealing a tunnel behind.

Pitching the bags into the dark opening, I step through and hit the release, and with a soft 'whoosh' the case returns to position, closing the tunnel entrance, soundless and seamless…exactly as when I last tested it, nearly ten years ago.

I gently bring Aislyne around to cradle her in my arms, ready to begin humming in her ear, but find she has slipped fully in the unconscious state. Accordingly, the restriction in her chest, and the straining muscles in her back and diaphragm are easing. Putting my ear to her breast, I listen to her heart; it beats fast, but strong and steady. One shuddering breath follows another as we stand, mere feet from where Brother Luminere now pounds at the tall black doors leading into the inner Hall, demanding they be unlocked.

Another voice, speaking normally, standing much closer to the Gem Case, is easily recognizable as that of the _b__âtard_ who has followed me across Asia and Europe, and 19 long years: Zamir ibn Hashim. Zamir is threatening to break Luminere's neck, which only makes the little man pound harder and yell louder.

Butler is not a petite woman, and I need to move on. The rough-walled passage is unlit and tricky to negotiate as it has a steep decline, leading to the ancient complex of chambers below: the hypogeum.

The odd acoustics of the underground complex have several novel effects, including that of amplifying sounds from specific areas of the building overhead. I plainly hear yelling and jeering; Pelegius' voice is clear, demanding a hearing, obviously being frog marched across the inner Hall toward the atrium. The Brotherhood has taken back their Hall.

It will not be a good day for Pelegius. Wryly I realize we have that in common.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After several anxious minutes, Aislyne's breathing eases enough I feel comfortable in letting her out of my arms. I lay her within the boxbed, presently raised a meter from the floor upon wooden crates. I have removed the dustsheet, and I lay it over her. Nearly half an hour has passed since her collapse; although her natural color has returned, I am troubled by the severity of the attack. I eventually hear her breathing change, and know she is conscious.

Her hand slips silently across the stiff, wool-stuffed pallet with its cover of heavy cotton until her knuckles strike against the solid oak side of the box that contains it. One eye carefully opens to see what she has hit, and her hand caresses the smooth, rounded edge of the low wooden wall. Her eyes continue to roam about her, no doubt seeking something familiar to provide her some idea of where she is.

Folding her legs neatly beside her hip, she throws back the dustsheet and rises gracefully into a sitting position. The lamp on the tall crate to her right sets a nimbus about her head…her hair has come down from its high coil. Set free, her thick, baby-fine tresses are twisted about wildly, seeming to float in the air and cascade loose around her face and shoulders.

I shove my hands in the ragged pockets of Chanson's coat, gripping them into fists. I want to touch her hair, run my fingers through its silken length, smooth out the twists…

Her gaze runs along the walls, following the line of petroglyphs incised in lines on every wall of the immense chamber. Her eyes stop at the closest of the four massive square columns, each located exactly equidistant from each other and the room's precisely cut corners. The columns bear massive totem carvings of strange creatures, bug-eyed with wide jaws, square bodies and limbs that bend in inhuman directions, highlighted in ruddy red ocher. Aislyne shivers, and rubs her arms…

Her nose twitches at the distinctive scents of ancient stone and burning lamp oil, even as she finally finds me, standing well back into the shadows. Her dark-vision is extremely fine.

"Where am I?" Her voice is subdued, and a trifle rough. She knifes her fingers through her hair, agitating the straight, fine stuff into even greater flight. Bending forward, her hair becomes a shimmering curtain, as she pats about on the pallet, seeking hairpins.

I reluctantly drag my attention from her hair.

Softly I say, "I distinctly recall telling you to leave by the left hand doors, Aislyne. And yet…you did not. Perhaps you could explain to me why that is?"

_And where was Daphne? And how close had I come to delivering you to __Zamir ibn Hashim__? _

Her face empties of emotion…she closes her eyes for a moment before answering. In a subdued voice she explains, "I am sorry…Bouchard. I could not do as you ask."

"You could not, or would not, Madame?"

Her eyes sweep the dark cavernous room. "Would not…could not, you choose what you like." After a moment she adds, "I chose not to when I saw who awaited me in the atrium."

"Indeed?" So Brother Aventurine had been waiting with his wife…and clever Aislyne figured out what was up immediately. Sighing, I say, "I hope you said nothing rude to them, my dear."

I am intrigued by the sudden rush of color upon Aislyne's cheeks, yet blather on. "You would have been much happier with them, you know. I am ill prepared to entertain a guest."

"I do not require…_entertainment,_ sir." Her voice is bitterly sarcastic. I find I am some surprised at her tone, the growing fire in her eyes. I cross the chamber to stop within the lamplight. Does she really want an argument?

"You may say that now, Madame. If nothing else, you would be much safer. I assure you the man pursuing me is no gentleman; he will hurt you if he finds you with me."

Aislyne's hands curl into fists. "I will take my chances. _**I will not**_ be imprisoned here in Lyon, or sent to Paris to be locked away like a felon!"

_Why is she so upset?_ 'Imprisoned'…is that how she sees a stay in the country? And she says I am dramatic!

"Calm yourself, my dear! And I very much doubt they would let you leave Lyon too quickly. You are British, and the novelty alone makes you a most desirable guest." I smile when I think of Daphne, whose English reflects her superior education as well as her years as a Shakespearean actress. She would have so adored Aislyne…

…Who is now kneeling in the boxbed, panting with redoubled rage! Yanking her skirts willy-nilly above her knees, she throws one leg then the other over the side. When I rush forward to offer my hand, I find myself looking down the large barrel of her Sheffield, assuredly loaded and cocked. "Stay _back_, Bouchard." Her voice is odd, stifled; I am shocked to see tears rolling down her cheek.

I step back, keeping my hands out; I do not like the look in her eyes at all, never mind the tears. Having settled her skirts back about her boots, Aislyne sniffs discretely, and fiercely wipes at her face with her sleeve. Setting her eyes at the level of my neckcloth, she says firmly, "I will leave here as soon as I have changed clothing. Where is the…bath?"

I cross my arms and grimace. "Aislyne, you cannot do this. Do you think to walk about in your brothers' clothing unchallenged?"

Her eyes shift to mine, and I am troubled by what I see there; disgust, loathing! She seems frantic…there is a noticeable hiccup in her breathing.

"I will…go to Paris! I have friends…a friend… Sh…they will insure I reach home…without being recognized. All I need from you…all I need is the location of the nearest telegraph…"

Aislyne is becoming breathless…

Rudely I interrupt. "That is impossible, Aislyne. Do you honestly think your friend Louise can shield you from the National Police? Her husband _**is**_ the police!" She gulps, and sits back against the boxbed; the pistol, however, never wavers in its unfriendly trajectory. That I need to reassure her is patent, and not only for _her _wellbeing. "Aislyne, please…stay here with me. It is obvious I have been overruled by fate. I accept that."

"So you say." After a moment she asks, "Why _did_ you change your mind? Why did you not…leave me there?"

Is it not interesting that she must ask?

Sighing in feigned impatience, I snap, "I could not leave you gasping like a trout thrown upon the bank." Not even I am that damaged!

"But you _do_ realize the minute I lose consciousness…"

"**Yes, curse it, I know!**"

_Mon dieu!_ She flinches hugely at the rage in my voice, and suddenly I cannot bear to look at her, twisting away to face the darkness, ashamed as I am of my damnable temper. Moderating my voice carefully, I admit, "I decided you would be much safer here…with me."

Silence is her response to this; she is undoubtedly shocked at my admission, or swallowing her disbelief. I am meanwhile telling myself there is no need to tell her _why_ it became so much safer for her to be here. And in that moment it occurs to me…_she was correct_. If not for her obdurate belief that we needed to stay together, and the good fortune that put her where I would see Luminere and friends…

Aventurine would have never gotten her out of the Hall in time…they would have been trapped, Aislyne gift-wrapped for Hashim's pleasure. And it would have meant Edgar and Daphne's lives to be found with her…

I had nearly delivered Aislyne, helpless and unarmed, to Zamir ibn Hashim. A most unnatural idea now forces its way through the morass of guilt and humiliation wherein I wallow: Tell her you were wrong! Tell her…

Aislyne stands before the box bed; her expression as hard as the wall behind her. The pistol is pointed down, however, and remains at her side. I am encouraged she no longer wishes to shoot me.

I want to go to her and fall at her feet, bury my face in her skirt, beg for forgiveness.

Ignoring the pistol, I calmly close the distance between us, advancing to within arm's reach. Her gaze remains level, but every muscle in her frame tightens; there is also now a definite wheeze to her breathing. Using her free hand, she pushes her hair behind her neck and shoulders, where it immediately begins creeping back towards her face.

It is painful to realize that everything I do from now on will be viewed through the sharp-eyed filter of mistrust.

I struggle for a moment with manly pride. "I must apologize for my…temper. I am angry with myself, Mademoiselle. _Only myself_. I have taken us from danger to disaster, brought us…**you**…into a damnable situation. I deserve your anger and distrust."

When she says nothing, I continue, using my most soothing voice, hoping to calm her enough to forestall another breathing attack. "We have drinking water from a naturally-filtered well. Give me but a few moments and I will uncrate a suitable container and fetch it for you."

She unconsciously licks her lips, a most disconcerting gesture. "I am thirsty."

I nod, and picking up one of the lamps, move to where the majority of the wooden crates are stacked against the wall. Long ago I wrote, in Arabic, the contents of most of the crates. In a crate marked, 'Kettle-Teapot-Mugs' I find large ironstone mugs, the teapot, and heavy tin kettle, as well as the wax-sealed canister of loose tea. There are also two tightly waxed tins of biscuits…the bland unsugared variety sold in the British shops in Paris. Prying both open, I find the contents have become mealy dust and weevil carcasses.

I also find the small stove, and cans of paraffin fuel. After I have set the stove up, with the fuel can ready to be lit, I look at the silent woman still standing before the boxbed. "I will step out to fill the kettle."

She nods silently, the big pistol now nowhere to be seen.

I walk to the spring room and fill the kettle from the jet of water that arcs from the wellpost, and return to the stove. Lighting the fuel can, I slide it beneath the tiny stove, and set the kettle on to boil. After stuffing the tin egg with tea leaves, I wipe out the cups with the towel that kept them from being broken. I keep busy, trying to avoid thinking of the look on her face. _She hates me… Why?_

"Bouchard…the bath?" Aislyne has her bags over her shoulder.

Returning to stand before her, I tilt my head, and hold out my hand, carefully unfurling my fingers in an attempt at lightly playful courtesy. "Allow me to show you…it is some distance in that direction…"

"No, Monsieur. You need only tell me." Aislyne's entire demeanor remains hostile; far beyond the anger I would have expected for having attempted to send her off with the Aventurines. I know something is not right…

"I really should check the plumbing…it has been many years, Aislyne."

I receive a hard stare. "Oh, very well. Straight through this chamber to the large doorway to the hallway; the second room upon the right is the room you want…the first is but a blind hole. There is no door but a large, wooden screen just inside blocks it from outside view. The…necessary is attached…just continue through the bath. It is offset so one must be in the room some ways in order to see it."

She listens to my directions, her eyes on my shirtfront. "Thank you," she says quietly, then motions that I need to step away. I hold up my hands and adjourn to the stack of crates against the wall beside the elevated bed.

"Take a lamp, my dear. The lit one, there." I busy myself with checking the crates, reading what is noted in Arabic on the top. I keep an eye on Aislyne, my thoughts troubled.

Picking up the prescribed lamp, she walks away without a word. I watch the lamplight illuminate the vast chamber floor, then the frenetic shapes carved into the massive lintel stones framing the exit to the hallway.

What have I done?

I am alone with my thoughts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is an entire crate of books, all fiction of various genres, and a metal file box full of pasteboard folders. I remember these…score sheets with oddments of musical notation; draft compositions I had thought were worthy of further refinement at one time. Instead I abandoned them here in my haste to relocate to Paris, once I had decided to do so.

There is clothing: the dust-and-dirt tan work trousers and blouses worn during my days as a 'working student' archeologist with the Lyon Institute' de Antiquities. There are two pair of formal breeches and a fitted coat, all of black superfine, and several of the expensive white lawn shirts I favored once upon a time. Holding one up, I am shocked to see it appears just a tad large across the chest. Perhaps Butler is correct, and I do need to gain weight.

Near the bottom of a crate that contains architectural reference books, I find the original bound leather portfolio of sketches for the Glassmen's Hall, as well the notes and drawings from my investigation and mapping of the hypogeum. As both had become indelibly linked in my thinking, I placed them together. Flipping through the large book quickly, I set it aside for further study. There are other journals, pages blank, as well as folio-sized sheets rolled in a tube; the building prints for other projects I had given thought to build here in Croix-Luizet.

Moving the boxbed to the floor, I check through the crates thus uncovered. The last crate contains several worn towels, bed linen, and a worn black opera cloak, neatly folded. Beneath this lie two long, square bottles of _la Fée Verte… absinthe, _and several squat jars containing opium tar; ghastly reminders of the dark months after escaping the Persian court and returning to France. I lift one bottle of the clear green liquor from the crate, recalling the poisonous taste when taken without ice…unavoidable considering the way I lived. I had strange dreams while in the throes of the 'green fairy', queer _tableau vivants _wherein I played the part of a small, happy Erik. Several times I had lain upon my pallet and drunkenly mourned the memory of a face. That was all I could ever remember…her face…and now I do not remember that. It had certainly not been my mother!

I move the bottles and opium pots into a nearby crate, willing to forget I ever saw them. I crouch to reach into the shadowed bottom of the crate, and find a large, flat wooden box, its top heavily carved. Pulling it out, I flip it open thinking to find drafting instruments…and nearly swoon, falling backward upon my haunches. There are vials of morphine, five of them, carefully cushioned in thick, shaped felt padding. Seven empty indentions are interspersed among the vials, and two steel and glass syringes are nestled secure in their own indentions at top and bottom. A blood-spotted handkerchief is wrapped about the business end of one.

Only these…drugs and alcohol…could subvert the endless replay of the memories of my years in the freak show, the beatings and shame meted by Javert, the murderous years in Persia. When I was alone…and indeed, my face assured that state except when I was working…I fell prey to nightmares, destructive rages, and frequent thoughts of self-annihilation…states I had no defense against sober. And so I spent my nights in a fog of smoke and alcoholic forgetfulness, and my days in frantic occupation at the glass ovens and Hall building site. I was sure that to relax my guard for an instant would mean I might become dangerous…murderous…to those around me, as well as myself.

I now recall with fondness the gentle oblivion, the pleasurable dreams to be found within the paradise of God Morpheus… I shunned the opium tar in favor of the distilled essence of the poppy, finding it did nothing but send me to sleep, to the most benign of dream states. A tiny amount deadened anxieties and shaded a cold, lonely life with tints of rosy warmth. Nadir had called it the Thief of Souls; he had even engraved it upon the top of the box…

Fingers running over one smooth vial, I think of the cold, hostile woman who now shares my exile to this dead place. I cannot help but wonder if just a drop or two, under the tongue...

Horrified, I pitch the box away, stunned by the wicked pull the drug still holds upon me. Glass vials fly out of their felt beds to break upon the stone floor. My hands have begun to shake, the ugly reality of the terrible situation in which I…_**we**_…are now embroiled coming to brutal focus.

I should have refused this ill-conceived 'rescue'…accepted the fate rightly delivered me. _Nothing has changed_; I remain the murderous, monstrous Erik de'Carpentier, hidden in shame by his parents, sold into slavery by his mother, the deformed grandson of one of the _**Ancien Régime**_**'s** most seigneurialistic dukes.

Would it not be ironic had both my grandfather and I died by guillotine?

Ah, but I am no longer de'Carpentier, am I? I have been 'reborn' as this ill-formed Jerrod Bouchard, the mentally maladjusted uncle to the de'Chagny's…or is it the Daae's? I have forgotten.

But_ nothing has changed_. Here I am again run to ground like a rabbit by dogs. And here's rich irony…I have swept yet another innocent down with me! I had thought to spare her…save her, but have instead earned her contempt and distrust.

Is it not depressing to realize my life has progressed so very little beyond that I knew as the Opera Ghost?

I cannot bear it…I cannot… Rocking forward, I lay my face into my hands.

I recall again the hideous drawings in the tabloids…the living corpse, the twisted, skull-like face with its rotting flesh sagging off bone. The large hole mid-face where a nose should be…shoving food into its lipless gape with _**its hands**_**! **_Zut alors!_

I am relieved such unbridled imagination is the hallmark of the successful journalist, as there is _no possible way_ Aislyne will ever deduce I am Erik de'Carpentier.

And suddenly I am filled with the urgent wish to see myself…to know if I do in any way resemble what the press has depicted. I touch my stubbled cheeks, my nose, finger the irritating flesh that pulls down upon my right eye. For the first time in my miserable existence, I want a mirror! Hah! An attack of vanity at this point in my life would be bizarre, would it not?

I remember my mother showing me the monster in the mirror…

So many years of pain and solitude focused upon surviving the misfortune of Erik's _appearance_. So many years! Vainly I clasp my hands to still them, stop them, control them. Tears burn at my eyes…fill my throat.

What good is life if I am always to be alone? Shunned by my parents, forsaken by Christine, forgotten by Nadir Kahn…and now…scorned by Aislyne Butler? Perhaps it is not just my face that repels. Perhaps there is something more…

_**She sees that death follows you like a shadow. Joseph Buquet. Umbaldo Piangi. Dietré Chanson and Thomas Xavier. Your hand need never touch them to kill. You are the Angel of Death after all, yes? **_

_Have I now Aislyne's voices in my head? Or is it her thoughts I hear? I know this place has strange affects upon one's emotions, but_…

Tears and sweat run down my face; a psychical ache begins from some metaphysical locus within my body, bending me over my wrapped arms. Things within my head seem to move…to shatter…

Memories…God no!

I can no longer stem the agonizing inundation of violent and bloody visions, the smells and feel of death. Blind to stone walls and enveloping darkness, I see…_a woman on the floor…her face still…_

Pulling my knees up I press my forehead into them, attempting to use pain to stop pain…stop the tactile sensations, the aural delusions...

_I gently touch her face…call her name…"Wake up, wake up!"_

Vivid images of horror and heartbreak now sweep behind my tightly closed eyes. There is _no escape… _Groaning, I roll to my side on the hard floor, my head cradled in my hands.

...I see the Devil's Child, shambling across the dirt floor with chains upon his young feet and a burlap bag over his head, playing violin and singing for Javert's customers. The wonder and pleasure in their faces at Erik's singing, at the tender, haunting song of his violin...

…_And the cruel laughter, horrified and revolted expressions, the sobbing children clinging to their mothers once the bag is ripped off, Erik's grotesque face revealed, voice and violin forgotten. _

…The beatings and abuse…_unthinkable_ abuse, that makes killing Javert an act of emotional release and intense pleasure!

…The Angel of Death, dressed in black, his face hidden in ebony silk, staging yet another elaborate execution for the viewing pleasure of a sadistically twisted woman and her tyrannical offspring. …_A kaleidoscopic assault of gruesome images…victims paralyzed with terror…bodies broken, necks twisted…their eyes at the moment of death…their eyes!_

...The slave girl, Muri...the object of Erik's secret longing and desire…her beautiful face unrecognizable with horror, screaming hysterically as she is dragged into Erik's _kada_ by a leering Hashim. Given the choice of accepting Erik's 'affection' or impaling herself upon Hashim's dagger, Muri throws herself without hesitation upon Hishim's blade _and sweeps it sideways to insure death..._

…Her eyes, large and doe-soft, stare into Erik's..._into mine_...as she prays to Allah for death's release before the _martikhora_ (monster, man-eater) can touch her...

_**I cannot stop them… **_

Helpless, I writhe upon the floor, curled upon my side, face buried within my arms, as the chancrous sickness within my soul flies its grisly colors. My grief is silent; I learned long ago the sound of crying drove my mother into near homicidal rages. Hence, I have always muted my sobs, silenced the snuffing inherent with a nose such as mine. Fluids are leaking from my eyes…every orifice to my nose…soaking my shirtfront and sleeves, but I cannot care enough to look for my handkerchief.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My music. I would have given them my music!

I remember those first years of walking the dark catwalks above the Opera Populaire stage during performances. It was as close as Erik…as I…would come to contentment. Always in the shadows, taking note of problems, always seeking perfection in the productions presented at the Opera Populaire. Rene LeFevre, the manager for most of my 'Populaire' years, recognized my gift and rewarded me for my suggestions and staging. LeFevre later paid me well indeed for the operas and music I wrote for his company. He welcomed my partnership, albeit silent and unseen, and together we made the Populaire a success!

As the 'Opera Ghost' I _served_ the Opera Populaire, helped build it, and designed sets and costumes, wrote music and entire productions, all well received and frequently lauded by the Paris _ton_. Everything changed when LeFevre retired…

When I surprised the crew foreman forcibly fondling one of the younger girls, I threatened him. He chose to hang himself before a packed house when he drunkenly slipped and became tangled in the lines above the stage. I had nothing whatsoever to do with it.

Nonetheless, I then became the _murderous_ Opera Ghost of the Opera Populaire, who strangled any who displeased him. Even those who had long accepted me as a benevolent 'Ghost' became round-eyed at the name. I 'haunted' the hallways and catwalks, becoming more hideous and deformed with each sighting.

The teakettle begins to whistle. I allow it to run up to a medium shriek, and only then pull my face from my sleeve. The two remaining oil lamps seem inordinately bright after the walk through the stygian darkness of my soul. Reluctantly I pull myself up from the floor and attend to the kettle, pouring hot water into the fat, jewel-glazed teapot, found in a shop here in Lyon many years ago. Dumping and refilling the teapot, I drop in the tea egg, replace the top, and cover it with a tea towel to steep. I snuff the fire and pour hot water in the mugs to warm them.

My shirt is a nasty mess; I remove my vest and shirt, and pull on the white lawn found in the crate.

Aislyne has been gone for some time, for which I am now thankful. She has not been assailed by the sight of the 'murderous' Phantom...crying like a little boy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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	46. Chapter Forty Five

Chapter Forty Five

The bath was not large, nor impressive, but giving due consideration to the surroundings, it was a marvel. There was running water, albeit cold, by hand pump. The sink was a metal tub with a drain hole in the center, plugged via a large ball of wax on a chain, a pump fastened to the side, set upon a big brass pipe.

The toilet flushed…by use of a hand pump, of course. There was a sizeable brass bath leaned against the wall, and a drain set into a depression in the middle of the room. A firebox with hooks suspended for heating buckets of water was tucked in one corner, built out from the original wall. Two buckets, free of cobweb and dust, hung from the hooks, and another sat before it, full of glossy black coal.

There was not a speck of dust anywhere; no cobwebs, no rust or corrosion on the metals. It was a most disturbing place altogether, the perfect match for the man sitting in the chamber beyond awaiting my return.

Finding the pump to the sink was in working order after a bit of sputtering, I washed my face and hands and dressed in fresh cotton drawers and sleeveless boy's undershirt, and my brother's dark trousers and blouse. I shook out my day dress, the light underskirt and chemise, and rolling them tightly, replaced them in my bags. I could only braid my hair into one fat braid as I had but one piece of leather to tie it; it immediately began springing free at my ears. I would again irritate Bouchard by wearing trousers, but I was choosing expediency and comfort in these surroundings. Ladylike attire did not fit well with my plans.

I blew out the lamp, thinking to conserve the oil. Actually, I needed no light beyond that dimly visible in the main chamber ahead, and thereby made my way back.

I stopped a few quiet steps past the chamber entry as I observed Bouchard angrily heaving a flat box across the floor, out into the darkness of the chamber. Several distinctive glass vials went flying, musically shattering on the stone floor. I wished him joy of his destruction; perhaps it would soothe the sadistic streak within his twisted soul. I no longer wished to experience his particular type of torture…twisting the blade, so to speak, already buried to the hilt within my foolish heart.

And no matter what he said, I would find the way out of here. I had no hat with which to hide my hair…but had decided to use my knife and cut it off anyway, just as soon as I could do so without alerting him to my intentions. Then, all I need do is get out of cursed Croix-Luizet and I could, I was sure, pass well enough for male to ask directions to a wire station.

It would be well to know his intent; was he going to return to Paris? If so, it was doubly important I escape and warn the de'Chagny's. The thought of admitting how I had been duped was not pleasant; nonetheless, my duty to them was clear.

I had put several of Louise's cards into my trouser pockets for that eventuality, in case I lost my bags. My knife was back at my right hip, as was the Sheffield above my left. The single shot I would keep in hand. My remaining monies were in my coat. I would not allow the man within 10 feet of me from now on. I would shoot him if necessary, but would try for a non-fatal result. Just the thought made my throat tighter.

I had gone over our last conversation several times, and try as I might, I could think of no reason for his behavior other than that of abandoning further deceit. He had lead me down the 'primrose path'…the very one Mam spoke of in our more depressing chats. (Wistfully, I wondered how much further that path might have continued, had our travel been uninterrupted)

Any doubts regarding his knowledge that the Lyon police waited outside those left-hand doors evaporated upon his advising me that as an Englishwoman, I would be such a novelty that I would not soon be sent to Paris.

I had gone sick hearing it; I shuddered to think about it now. And the way he smiled, all but laughed outright after telling me this?

Nor would I soon forget his expression when he had first sighted me standing in the atrium: _horror_…sheer, absolute and unmistakable.

Now I wanted to be sick, shame at my ignorance and inexperience a bitter, acid taste in my mouth. Suddenly, I was too tired to face him; to hell with his plans. Moving quietly to the corner of the chamber, I sat down, putting my back to the wall. Better I fall apart here in the dark, than suffer further derision for my many 'novel' faults. Pulling out yet another handkerchief…thank heavens I'd stuffed a handful in my bags…I closed my eyes and faced the inner storm.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bouchard sat in the boxbed...that was now laid flat upon the floor, a bound sketchpad upon his knee and a mug of tea held in his hand. Leaned comfortably against a large roll of what appeared to be another linen-covered pallet, he gave no sign of awareness that I had returned from my prolonged visit to the bath. He did not, in fact, appear to notice me at all.

I filled a my waiting mug with tepid tea, struggling to hold the pot and mug steady in hands that shook in spastic starts. I was thirsty and exhausted, my state of mind that of numb misery. Any thought of welcome to the 'hearthside' would have been ruthlessly squashed by his total indifference. Better I had expected none.

Despite his cold reception, and after a bit of questionable rationalization, I joined the silent man in the boxbed, having surveyed our present accommodations and found nothing else near so inviting. I took the opposite end of the box, however, unsure of closer intimacy with a man who was apparently so unhappy with my presence he chose to totally ignore it.

The boxbed was long and wide enough, as were the several thickly stuffed mats that filled it, edge to edge, we need never worry either of us would suffer from a shortage of leg or 'elbow' room. In fact, one would have to actively seek physical contact, if one wished it…

I miserably realized I wanted nothing more at that very moment. Just to feel his hand take mine…perhaps one of his enveloping hugs, complete with a hum or two…

I had in the past half-hour walked the dark paths of someone's nightmares, and I had only one guess whose they were. It had been an eye-opening experience…and one I prayed never again to experience.

In the dark and warmth of the chamber corner, exhaustion had overwhelmed my desire to remain conscious; I had immediately slipped into a dream state. My very first vision was of an elderly woman lying upon the floor, legs gracelessly akimbo…she having passed beyond such corporal concern…her flesh cool, eyes staring sightlessly.

From there my subconscious was sent into an accelerating maelstrom of nightmare scenarios, each exponentially worse than the last. Try as I might, I could not escape…

The heartbreaking _feel_ of a child's sobbing that rang inside my head, _as I tugged the woman's hand, and gently patted her beloved, flaccid cheeks._

The terror of abandonment…and the despair of betrayal, _as I crouched in the dark corner of an iron cage_.

The sound of leather wetly striking bloody flesh as _agony striped my back and buttocks_…

Someone screaming inside my head _as a monster __ripped at my most secret flesh…_

...Progressing nonstop into a forced march through what now seemed the Seventh Pit of Genhenna. The last scents, sights, sensations clung like East End smut to my consciousness…

The chill of secret corridors and hidden stairs leading down below the earth…_my fingers numb to the touch of cold, wet walls. _The scent of wet earth and old stone, and the acrid smell of burning wax…_candles, dozens of candles, illuminating a stone dais draped in crimson and gold. _

The hissing rumble of a cathedral organ at full voice, and angels' voices, baritone and soprano, rising, blending in celestial splendor…_begging for death...__while the sweet echo of her voice filled my ears…until I..._

...Jerked awake with the sense I had just that instant returned to my own body, my heart slamming against my breastbone, a scream pushing from my throat. It was a singular sensation, not unlike falling off a cliff and suffering heart failure simultaneously…and not one I wished to repeat.

Shuddering convulsively, my senses in total disorder, I decided to return to the 'campsite' post haste, Bouchard be damned! I could not shake the visual, aural, and sensorial impressions left behind by the nightmare; each scene was so vivid and sensorially complete they felt as real as any I had ever experienced awake!

I was stiff and a trifle shaky arising from the floor. Upon gaining my feet I realized fully how weak and fragile I was. My entire body shook with an inner tremor that radiated twice magnified to my extremities, leaving me alarmingly wobbly on my feet, even when braced against the wall. It was nearly beyond my ability to lift my saddlebags to my shoulder, and both hands were necessary to hold the unlit lamp securely. Thus I made my unsteady way back to the light.

Apparently, my thinking was suffering from a certain unsteadiness as well, as I held but one thought in mind: get as close as possible to Jerrod Bouchard. In my irrational judgment, this was the only antidote to my current mental and physical distress.

Bouchard said nothing; did not raise his eyes from the sketchbook even to disagreeably note I was again wearing my brothers' clothes. He merely turned the pages of the book at infrequent intervals, ostensibly lost in study.

I arranged my end of the box for comfort, folding my jacket to lie over the softest pannier of the saddlebags as a backrest, wishing I had my little travel quilt to curl around. I pulled off my boots, placing them upon the floor beside the end of the box, and assumed a cross-legged sit, huddled over my mug of tea. With half the cup gone, I began to feel somewhat less puny.

Carefully I studied Bouchard over the edge of my twitching mug, seeking any sign my nightmares reflected a corresponding emotional episode for him. I could think of no other explanation. Of course, I would need to accept the notion that Bouchard and I had shared a mental link of a psychic variety. And yes…I could do that…because I had _felt_ the person experiencing those horrors and heartbreaks…had known him irrefutably!

The subject of these thoughts was as indecipherable as ever. However, his eyes were red-rimmed and the right eye particularly bloodshot. With hair in disarray and flipped over his forehead, he had a slightly dandified appearance. His shirt was of soft white linen, open at the neck; he had been wearing a coarse blue shirt with a black scarf at his throat.

A discernable tremor could be seen in the hand that gripped the mug, if one looked for it...

With a surge of adrenaline, I realized he was no longer absorbed in his sketches, but darkly observing my rude assessment of his physical state. After a noticeable start of surprise, thereby slopping tea upon my pant leg, I met his gaze with composure I did not necessarily feel…and waited for the inevitable sarcastic barrage.

"I trust you had no problems finding your way back, Mademoiselle." The sketchbook snapped shut. "Were you happily detained in your evening ablutions? Or rather, avoiding the weeping madman?"

His intonation was mild and expression blank, yet I _felt_ his resentment. Now, why would he resent my absence? I would have thought he would revel in it!

I kept my response cool, my eyes downcast. "I chose to retire to a dark corner for a bit of privacy. If you had needed me, you had but to call."

"You are trembling, Madame…"

And so I was…my hand vibrating where it hung from my bent knee. I dropped it beside me, palm flat upon the pallet. "As are you, I may point out. Hunger and exhaustion does that to a body." There was a noticeable quaver in my voice. My teeth were beginning chatter from containing wracked emotions.

Canting his right face forward, Bouchard spoke with silky sarcasm, "You have good reason to feel both, Madame. Accept my apology for the lack of suitable accommodations. I was not expecting a guest, of course." I was given a vast toothy smile.

"I ask your pardon for the vast logistical burden I have become. Perhaps it would be best if you were to show me the door, so to speak. Like an unwelcome guest…"

"That is not possible." The grin was gone, his eyes hard.

Gritting my teeth, I hissed, "I wish you had left me there. The moment I realized…realized what a fool I had been…what an idiot! But I did what I could to remedy my stupidity. You could have just left me there…I could have covered your escape!" I tried very hard to keep my voice from catching…my throat from closing.

"Yes, providing yourself as the…_diverssement_!" Bouchard ground out the final word, his expression slipping yet another notch toward that of mad Angel. Exploding into motion, he sent the sketchbook upon his lap skittering across the floor, thrusting himself upright and across the wide box to land in a crouch before me. I could not stop the squeak of alarm at the sudden burst of confusing movement and noise, nor my arms from flying out between us in unconscious defense. I jumped anew when my mug shattered upon the stone floor beside the bed.

"You are afraid of me, Butler!"

I closed my eyes, unwilling to see him gloat. "No doubt that pleases you."

His silence was enough to open my eyes. Shaking his head, he moved back upon his heels setting his hands along his thighs. His voice now rough with an unfamiliar emotion, he said, "I did not need your help, Madame. All was set in motion exactly as I had planned. You could have been comfortably away from all this…this privation and darkness, well-fed and warm, not buried in this dark realm with a…_madman_." He hissed the last, his eyes drilling into mine.

I drew back, burying my face into my hands, wishing only to become invisible, to escape this torture_._ Every bitter word from his lips underlined the fact he did not wish me here, in his dark underground oubliette. There was a time I would have met his anger with my own…and reminded him that he was my _patient_, my _responsibility_...

Instead I found myself tearfully whispering, "Enough, Bouchard! Have I not apologized? I had no thought of burdening your further. But when I saw the policemen there in the atrium waiting for me…" I wiped furiously at my face, ashamed of my tears… "I am sure I would have been vastly entertained...being such a novelty...just as you say."

I looked up into his face for the smallest bit of softening...the tiniest scrap of understanding…and found his eyes ablaze in the dim light with what could only be…rage. Grimacing, shaking…he put out his hands as if to grab me…jerked them back to the side of his head, fisted instead.

"Damn you, Butler! And...damn me!" His voice was soft, but his eyes were not.

His words freed me…cutting decisively through the iron control to my temper. I felt my face flash with heat; the man faded behind a wash of bloody red. Enraged, I shoved my hands beneath my hips, afraid I would hit him, cut him, tear him apart! My voice became his punishment, knowing as I did how he vastly preferred the dulcet tones in the feminine range.

Past clenched jaws, I spat, "I could not have said it better! Damn you, indeed!" Rising awkwardly to my feet, I stepped out of the boxbed, filling my hands quickly with boots, jacket and saddlebags. I turned to send the last shot in his general direction, "Send me back to face them **now**, Bouchard, or have done! I will take no more of your abuse!"

"Aislyne…wait…"

I glared wrathfully into his direction, still lost in the fiery haze of my outrage, frustration…and pain. Blindly I stomped away, toward the exit to the springhead, grabbing a lantern on the way. I hoped there was enough fuel in it that I might become well and truly lost down endless, dark tunnels before it ran out.

I did not care about _after_.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have paced the limit of the lamps' concentric circles of light, as well as visited every dark corner of the chamber before I hear her abandon the solitude of the dead-ended spring room. She has left the lamp behind. Her bootless feet are silent as she stalks along the far wall, visible to me only as a vague shadow in her dark clothing. I allow her to make it halfway to the opposite side of the chamber before I speak.

"I cannot vouchsafe the floor past that point is free of glass shards. Your feet…" Standing, I take several steps in her direction, stopping at the very edge of the lamps' glow.

A gasp of vexation, then she angrily shouts, "My feet are fine! Do not worry yourself about MY FEET!" She stops and looks down, then sweeps one foot about, eliciting the expected scratch and tinkle of glass. I listen as she retreats several steps, then attempts to slip on one boot while standing; a grunt of frustration is followed by the thud of meat and bone hitting a too-solid floor. I am shocked to hear my name muttered amidst a string of corrosive profanity and muffled, gasping sobs.

I wring my hands, cursing myself for the distress I have caused this woman.

Still sitting on the hard floor, she fights with the boots; she has put the first one on the wrong foot. I wander obliquely toward her, but stop in my tracks at her gasped 'No! Do not dare come any closer!' Again rising, she resumes walking along the wall, no longer bothering to do so with the least bit of stealth.

I idly wonder if she has noticed her path is clear; no glass beneath her boots. I produced the illusion from where I stood, thinking to stop her stubborn march across the chamber, then toed the pieces of broken vial against a crate, safely out of the way.

There is no time to waste; I need to stop her and resolve this now. My resolution falters in the face of her stubborn hostility; nonetheless, I call out to her, "Aislyne, please come back. I did not know...we need to talk!"

Halting, her head snaps about, her eyes just catching the light. There is a fast exhalation, and "Whatever is there to discuss, Bouchard? I believe you have made it abundantly clear you wish me anywhere but here, and to the devil preferred!"

I grit my teeth at such foolish words...from where has all this painful thinking come? "This is not true, Aislyne! Please…I need to talk to you…"

Dragging my fingers through my wretched hair, I reflect on the stubborn nature of one female, wondering what I can say that will stop her. Desperate, I cry out, "I did not send you to the left-hand doors because I was...abandoning you to the Lyon police, Aislyne! I_** had no idea they were there**_. You were never to be found by them...that was _never_ my intention... _**I swear it**_."

She stops. Stillness. I continue. My nose whistles faintly with my growing distress. "Brother Aventurine…you do remember him? His good wife was awaiting you at the offices. You were to go with her. Brother Aventurine and his wife do not live in Croix-Luizet, but out in the countryside. You were to stay with them...as one of their 'daughters'...where I would know where to find you…until I returned for you."

Her voice is loud…strident. "**You could not have told me this…before?**"

I listen as her breathing becomes increasingly uneven. Why is she crying now? Panicked, I begin blathering, "Aislyne…I…did not think it wise to tell you. You were quite adamant in refusing such an arrangement. I figured springing it upon you would best insure the desired results."

When she says nothing, I continue, with a worrisome quiver in my voice. "I had no idea the Lyon police were there, I swear it."

I hear her bags falling to the floor; I know her face is now in her hands, as her breathing has become muffled. Softly she says, "I see." I am assured she does, but the fault lies not with her. It is mine, _mine..._

I move toward her…walking carefully, as one would toward a flighty, frightened animal…speaking quietly, earnestly. "Tell me you do not think me capable of…of such betrayal. I could not bear it if you thought me so...callus, so dishonorable!" No wonder she found me repugnant, thinking I had given her over to face murder charges!

We both now stand in darkness, but away from the glare of the lamps, I can now see the smudged halo of her face when she lifts it to look to me. We are both silent, both shaken, awaiting the other's response...

Her voice is low, and distorted with tears. "I wanted so much to trust you. And...I do. I know you are a good man, an honorable man. That you knew nothing of the police." The hanky goes to work at eyes and nose; her weeping becomes hiccupped exhalations.

There is a hitch in my chest, the faintest thread of music in my heart. Holding out my hand I ask, "Please, Aislyne…please...come here. There is so much more I need to share with you. So much..." Both hands are outstretched...I am now pleading.

I know I have her attention...I feel her eyes upon me, yet she stands, unmoving. "Then…t-tell me."

"You do not trust me enough to come and sit with me...to come back to the light? It is hard speaking to a faceless phantom hiding in the shadows..."

I am alarmed to hear quiet laughter…touched with a hint of hysteria.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I resist laying my entire violent, brutish past before her, preferring instead to stick with recent history. Specifically, that which landed me in the Rois Pour la Défectuosité: my transgressions while a resident of the fifth basement of the Opera Populaire'. I believe Aislyne's perception of the Opera Ghost is nearer to fairytale than fact; I recall our bizarre conversation concerning the madman on our last hack out on the horses. I do not wish her to suffer disillusionment later...far better to give her the full truth **now**.

And while I will confess my sins, I will defend myself of those crimes wrongly laid upon me, and there are many!

I have already sought to clear the past several hours' myriad misunderstandings, in one instance choosing to prevaricate in the name of alleviating her stress. I do not tell her that my expression of "sheer horror"...her words...was in realization of the imminent arrival of Zamir ibn Hashim. I offering instead, "You were in a such a state, Aislyne, I feared for your life! Naturally I was horrified!"

Perched upon a low crate adjacent to where Aislyne sits across a rolled pallet, I am in a state of high anxiety...dreading Aislyne's reaction to my confession. Fear? Outrage at the deception? Or much worse: a forever-closed door to her guarded heart!

Once I irretrievably remove the scales from her eyes, will I hereafter be considered just another pitiful lunatic...given naught but the prescribed measure of her _**charitable acceptance**_, delivered gracefully from a prudent emotional distance? This is, I know, exactly what she offers her _patients_...and the absolute antithesis of everything I want...I need from her!

My cheeks burn as if with fever, and I hug myself to contain impetuous thoughts of falling at her feet...prostrating myself to beg absolution...forgiveness...

Now I sound mad, even to myself! I scrub at my prickly face, wishing I had taken time to shave when I had the chance. It has been a long day, and I have much yet to do before the sun rises again.

Aislyne has donned the slightly shabby tweed jacket in deference to the faint chill of the hypogeum, and looks weary and exhausted. I have seated her upon the rolled pallet and pressed into her hands yet another cup of the inevitable hot tea, for the warmth if nothing else.

I take several calming breaths, and leaning forward to look directly into her eyes, I begin: "De'Chagny has committed an egregious deceit, Mademoiselle Butler. I confess... It is not Christine's...nor is it de'Chagny's...uncle you are escorting to the family estate in Livorno. You are in fact in the company of a most dangerous and despicable criminal..." my voice fails me...I drop my chin toward my chest, and again breathe deeply, preparing to continue.

Despite the shadows that mask it, I know a smile has just bloomed across her face by the sweet rounding of her cheeks haloed by lamplight. "My dear…_Erik_. I had decided you were de'Carpentier some days ago. And I will debate the 'dangerous and despicable' description."

Thoughts totally derailed, I stare at her, thinking, 'Why am I surprised?'

Aislyne lifts her chin, crosses her arms firmly, saying, "I realized you were other than de'Chagny's 'elderly uncle' the day I visited you in the 'Rois Home Pour la Défectuosité, Monsieur."

For one moment I am sidetracked by the memory she evokes with those offhand words; I see Aislyne as she was that day. No angel... but an avenging _Gordafarid_, armored in her androgynous suit, armed with an immutable sense of duty.

…And recall the way I clung to her words, repeating them _ad infinitum_, lost in the spell she cast upon the entire ward... There was _something _about the woman that caught at my battered spirit...the wild place in her eyes…the sense of unassailable calm she carried within.

I force myself back into the moment, and catch her staring at me, her green eyes incandescent from the lamplight she faces, an indefinable expression lighting her entire face. She deftly avoids my own questioning gaze, choosing instead to focus on my twisting hands.

"I admire your ability to keep a secret, _mon ami_. Are you not...worried, given my past and reputation?"

"No, Erik, I am not." A vague upturn to the lips punctuates her simple statement; she caresses my name with her voice, a silent thought appended: '_I so enjoy saying it...at last.'_

"There are those who would think you very foolish, my dear Aislyne. I have not lived a…commendable life."

Her smile quirks, as if she sees some cosmic irony in my statement. In the golden light thrown by the oil lamps, I see something dark move through her eyes, the shade of the beast… She turns away and she is in shadow once more, looking out into the dark of the hypogeum chamber.

"I am the last person to throw stones, Erik. I have… I am…" She breathes deeply as if gathering resolve, and her arms twist about her in the way I know only too well. She seems to deflate then, saying "I am no saint. I have…much to answer for in my life, also."

What was it she had not the courage to say?

"So, you would have me believe your crimes equal those of the Opera Ghost, Madame?"

"I have no idea, Monsieur Opera Ghost. Perhaps you would be kind enough to expound upon your checkered career? I remember little beyond the newspaper articles, and you are proof of the inaccuracy to be found there!"

"You do, however, believe I am who…and what…I say?" Heaven forsake me if she thought she was but playing to my madness…humoring a man suffering from a delusional disorder!

But her face is open…now ardently so. "I have no doubts at all. I know you are Erik de'Carpentier."

"No tufts of hair beneath my ears…nose intact, albeit somewhat tattered on one side." I lean over, to present my face well within her reach, wondering what she will do. "Perhaps you would prefer to investigate further before you made such declaration…?"

After a moment wherein neither of us so much as breathes...my anxiety is eased as she sets aside her tea to lay her soft, warm palms upon my face. Her eyes are dark pools, their secrets hidden, yet her heart is there for this fool to see upon her face. I smile to think that mine might also be emblazoned across every twisted bit of flesh.

Leaning in to me, Aislyne kisses me...just a brush, and pulls back. I know heat rushes up her neck and over her cheeks; her mouth is an 'o' of dismay. Blinking, she shakes her head. "I am much too forward, am I not?" Her eyes never stray from my face.

"I do not complain, Mademoiselle. It would appear that I am… _backward_. My minds tells me to…to kiss you…but my…my courage is sadly lacking." This last sends the color burning over my cheekbone.

"Ha. You, sir, wish only to tease me into this devilish forward behavior." Her hands continue to caress my face…I am in paradise!

"And bless you for being so easily teased. I will _never_ complain..."

How can it be I wish to sing and weep simultaneously. A feeling of great lightness fills my chest, and I do believe the expression on my face matches exactly the foolish direction of my thoughts.

Aislyne sits quietly, her smile returned. Her hands leave my face with one last caress, to fall upon her knees. There is a sense of unfolding possibilities between us...a shared sense...of that which has never before been feasible. Shared in the truest sense, as I realize it comes from her and me, her thoughts are mine. An odd business...

She reaches out to capture my hand and I return to sitting upon my crate. As soon as I have settled, and turned to her, she says, "And now you must tell me. Tell me all about Erik."


	47. Chapter Forty Six

Consider this punishment for the 15 people who read…but did not review. Sans Erik, Aislyne…

**Please review!**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Chapter Forty Six**

Nadir Kahn listened to the tiny woman as she stomped about the hotel room, cursing in gutter French. She held a wet cloth to her right eye, and it was apparent bruising would cover nearly the entire of that side, nose to ear, hairline to chin. Nadir was impressed that she was ambulatory. A lesser being would have been unconscious yet...or dead.

Sitting across from him in the small parlor, Emanuel Gadreau wore an expression of perpetual agony, either from his sister's foul language or the blow to his back, Kahn was not quite sure. It was clear, however, that the man was suffering, and Kahn could appreciate at least one reason for his pain. A blow to the kidney was a classic torture strike, as mere breathing set off spasms in the muscles for days afterward. Hashim had always excelled at hurting people, and he had apparently kept in practice.

"It is not necessary to be in such pain, Monsieur Gadreau. We should recall the doctor and have him prescribe something..."

"No, no, no! We do not have time. We leave here as soon as possible! A doctor would tell me to stay in bed, or take potions that would make me a groggy fool! This I will not do!" Grunting in sudden pain caused by one expressive move too many, Emanuel subsided...face twisted and grey, breath coming in gasps.

Staring at her brother, Anna howled, "They have killed him...my brother is dying! What will happen to me?" Anna Gadreau whirled about and fled to what had been Mademoiselle Butler's room, slamming the door behind her.

Emanuel Gadreau rolled his eyes, and did a bit of cursing himself, albeit under his breath. His sister had become an embarrassment, displaying the reasons she had been blacklisted by every avenue of respectable employment in Paris. He slanted a look to the dark gentleman, finding him in deep contemplation of the recently slammed door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kahn had met the Gadreau's at the front of the hotel, taking charge of their care immediately. It was readily apparent Anna Gadreau had suffered a severe beating by her bloody and battered face...and that she was conscious by the shrieking that filled the hotel. The young women who assisted her up the stairs to the suite looked to be suffering also, from shattering eardrums.

Emanuel Gadreau's face was untouched...and stark white. He, unlike his sister, made not a sound beyond wheezing convulsively, leaning heavily upon the stout hotel matron who assisted him. From the man's behavior, Kahn could guess he had suffered a severe blow to the back.

Opening the door so the party could enter, Kahn followed them in. Pressing generous compensation into the hands of the hotel employees for their aid to the Gadreau's, he politely requested ice and towels, and that a runner be sent for a physician. More coins were dispensed, with more promised.

Finding Emanuel Gadreau in the process of lowering himself onto an uncomfortable-looking settee in the area dominated by the grand piano, Kahn immediately introduced himself. "I have been sent to offer my help in dealing with the delay in traveling to Italy." His statement was a distortion of the truth, but not an out-and-out lie.

Emanuel Gadreau displayed hostile suspicion, and rightly so. Having coaxed a quick recount of the Gadreau's ordeal from the two young women supporting Anna Gadreau, Nadir assumed the Gadreau's had met Zamir ibn Hashim. Yet another foreign gentleman was not exactly a welcome visitor at the moment.

Kahn spent several minutes providing the grimacing Gadreau with his credentials, answering his questions. Once Emanuel was satisfied Kahn was who he said he was, all his strength seemed to fail. Sagging further sideways upon the hard-seated settee, he closed his eyes, saying, "Monsieur…any help is appreciated, I assure you."

Nadir Kahn had questions of his own; specifically, what had just happened to the Gadreau's...and where were Mademoiselle Butler and Jerrod Bouchard?

Emanuel Gadreau related all he knew of the trip to the rail station and the de'Chagny railcars, explaining that Chanson was to stay with Mademoiselle Butler as she had recently been accosted by two drunks out by the stables. Gadreau also let slip that the Mademoiselle and his sister did not care for each other…quickly dropping the subject. Lapsing into silence, his expression became troubled. He then told Kahn of what Anna and the Mademoiselle had found at the Pullman cars. "Anna said they were dead. Murdered! Is this possible Monsieur?"

Kahn felt his face freeze with the shock of the man's words; why would anyone kill de'Chagny's men? "Monsieur Gadreau…you are mistaken, surely. Your sister said…what…?"

"Yes! Both Xavier and Chanson were shot while they were at the Pullman cars. They were supposed to be moving our luggage onto the cars…we were scheduled to leave Lyon tomorrow. Anna was quite sure, saying the Mademoiselle…she was covered in Chanson's blood!"

"So where is the Mademoiselle now?"

Emanuel Gadreau had dropped his head carefully against his supporting arm to wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead onto his sleeve. Rocking his head in distress, he growled, "The Mademoiselle did not return, and in fact, left my sister off on a street corner. Simply shoved her out of the fiacre and yelled at the driver to 'drive on, and hurry'! Anna was most unhappy…"

"Yes, I have no doubt... But Bouchard was not with them…he was in fact here, yes?"

"Monsieur, he was in his room...and then he was not. When the two uniformed men came demanding to speak to Monsieur Bouchard, I knocked on his door. When he did not answer, I attempted to open it. It was locked. I turned to find both men had entered the suite, and when I told them the door was locked, I was yanked aside and the door KICKED in! Of course, the room was empty. I was dragged downstairs."

Gadreau's treatment by Hashim and his cohort was nothing to what next happened to Anna in Emanuel's mind. He became so upset while telling of it, he began helplessly weeping. It was at this point Nadir requested the man speak no further on the subject, and fetched him a glass of wine from the sideboard.

Questioning Anna was not possible at present. She had adjourned to the washroom and was oblivious to anything but her injuries. Kahn was therefore most relieved when the physician, Dr. Mannard, arrived, with a stout female assistant. A bucket of ice and toweling were delivered to the room by the two young men, who were generously rewarded and sent on their way.

The physician did his best with the Gadreau's, considering both proved difficult patients. Gadreau refused anything for his pain. Anna demanded immediate relief for hers, while weeping and whining continuously during Dr. Mannard's examination. Kahn paid him well, and requested he consider revisiting the next day when both patients had settled.

The hour now well past dinner, Kahn firmly insisted Emanuel stay in the suite...in whatever bed he wished...and then requested Emanuel's belongings...along with Chanson's and Xavier's, be brought up to the suite. He requested invalids' meals be delivered for the Gadreau's. Seeing them both fed and as comfortable as they would allow, he took himself off to find his own dinner.

With one last stop at Emanuel's bedroom door, he tried to put Emanuel Gadreau's mind at ease, insisting they would be cared for until able to resume travel. He also insisted both Gadreaus give a full statement to the police as soon as they arrived to investigate the deaths of Dietré Chanson and Thomas Xavier.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast was served and cleared away, the meals delivered by a winsome maid who normally never saw the outside of the kitchen. She tucked the coin given her by the foreign gentleman into the deep pocket she had sewn into her underskirt, usually filled with what provender she could lift from the kitchen for her two babes at home. Coin money, however…she was certainly ready to deliver meals all day, even to the one who haughtily demanded she stay out of her room. As evil tempered as that one was, it was no surprise the way her face looked.

Kahn was sitting in one of the more comfortable chairs before the bay windows of the sitting room, reading of yesterday's double murder at the Gere de Perrache Lyon. There was little beyond the basic facts, and no names, although the Pullman cars were identified as belonging to the Compte' de'Chagny, presently of Upper Berne, Switzerland.

Emanuel Gadreau listed upon one of the divans before the unlit fireplace. He drank spastically at his coffee, wishing he could slip a splash...or many...of Calvados into the cup instead. It had been much too long since his last drink, and it was either that, or the pain of his back that had the sweat soaking his shirt, front and back.

Anna was again in the bath, crying over the damage to her face. The intervening night's sleep had increased the bruising and swelling; if anything, she was even more grotesque than yesterday. Her voice rose and fell...cursing, pleading...demanding vengeance. To her brother every word was clear; too many times the Mademoiselle's name was spoken.

Nadir Kahn sat reading the newspaper, apparently unaware of the angst and drama playing out about him. Emanuel's eyes rested resentfully upon the dark gentleman's profile.

Initially thankful Monsieur Kahn had arrived to take charge of the situation, Emanuel's anxiety now rose by the hour. Anna's behavior turned ever more counter to the properly servile and would surely soon cost them both their employment. They would be relieved of their duties and sent back to Paris without job or recommendation. The fact he had lied to provide for his feckless sister tied him to her continued transgressions like an anchor about his neck in deep water.

There would be no choice for them but the tenements of the _**quartier misérable**_, living in grinding poverty. No work for Emanuel but the return to petty theft and whatever day work was available for a man who was no more than child-sized, albeit strong as an ox. And his sister…no, he did not wish to think about his sister…

The culmination of this line of thought nearly brought him to anxious tears; he felt the dark man's eyes rest upon him briefly, then return to his newspaper.

Nadir Kahn appeared to see everything; even a man's thoughts and emotions. Shifting carefully on the divan, Emanuel dealt soundlessly with the physical pain, and wondered if Kahn was appraising his ability to do the job Aislyne Butler had given him. He pulled himself up to sit straight, showing none of the agony such posture exacted.

Folding the paper carefully to its original neatness, Nadir Kahn again turned to Gadreau, his voice as kind as his expression, "You have more than enough money to see you through a week of rest, Emanuel. I believe the Pullmen will not be ready yet for travel...what with the…ah…cleaning, and so on.

Gadreau gave a short grunt, and shook his head. "We do not need but one of the Pullman cars...indeed...there is only my sister and me and two horses. If it were not for the horses and the piano, I would leave the cars here...

Kahn nodded encouragingly, saying, "You can do that, Monsieur Gadreau, I am sure. The horses can be boarded with any livery here and later sent back to Paris. I can make arrangements for the shipment of the piano."

"No, I _cannot do that_!" The small man gasped with pain, his face white, but after a moment continued. "I _will_ take the cars to the coast, and we, horses, and all of the household belongings _will_ go by ship to Livorno. I _will _await Mademoiselle Butler there!" Gadreau spoke resolutely, his expression dogged. "That is what she told me to do...and _I will do it_."

Kahn sighed. The chances of Mademoiselle Butler living to see the outskirts of Lyon, much less Livorno, Italy diminished by the hour. Once Erik had taken her with him, her fate had become tightly tied to his.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This very morning at a hastily called meeting with the newly arrived captain of the Minister's private police cadre, Nadir had been reminded of this fact, even as he argued for restraint in the use of force.

"Surely you realize, Captain, the murder of de'Chagny's men was the work of Zamir ibn Hashim. He has been identified by several eyewitnesses while beating two of the members of our party senseless. Several have corroborated Hashim demanded the whereabouts of Bouchard. I believe Bouchard has taken Aislyne Butler and gone aground to avoid the Shah's assassin."

The Prussian officer listened patiently as Nadir expressed his thoughts, yet flicked his hand to the side, as if batting aside Kahn's words. "Then perhaps Monsieur Bouchard needs to come to us so we may protect him, Inspector Kahn. You will tell him that when next you see him, yes?"

Kahn did not rise to the bait of the Captain's insinuation. The Captain's men could spend their time following him about if they wished…he would not waste his time trying to find the pair. There were far more effective ways to help them.

Captain Hietz had reminded Kahn the orders initially given him in Paris were immutable: no hostage situation would be given consideration once Bouchard was located.

"This is no hostage situation, Captain Hietz! Bouchard has simply taken her to protect her from the men who seek him. Your subsequent actions are to be based on the assumption Mademoiselle Butler is not a hostage, but is under the protection of Jerrod Bouchard. It would be best you consider Monsieur Bouchard a victim of circumstance instead of a liability to be dealt with."

"Yes, of course, Inspector." The Captain's doubtful expression was at odds with his words. "Yet if we do locate Bouchard, and he does not willingly give himself and his hos...er...the Mademoiselle into our hands, I will have no choice but to execute my original orders!"

"You will do well to make certain of the facts before you shoot _anyone_, Captain. Remember that Jerrod Bouchard has _no reason_ to trust you any more than he trusts the madmen who are openly hunting him."

"And how is that my concern, Kahn? I am to bring this Bouchard under control; how am I to do so if I cannot use force? This is, after all, a man who is obviously a potential embarrassment to our employer. I do not understand _why_..." The Captain was obviously not immune to curiosity.

Stepping forward just enough to invade the other's space, Kahn placed one scarred finger on the bigger man's massive chest. Speaking quietly, Kahn said, "Understand this: Jerrod Bouchard is an honorable gentleman who remains under the Minister's protection, as well as _mine_. Aislyne Butler is an innocent bystander. I will be…_upset..._ should anything unpleasant befall Mademoiselle Butler. Both the Minister and I will be _most_ distressed if Bouchard dies for nothing more than protecting himself and his nurse-companion!" Kahn's expression was one of lethal intent.

Captain Hietz swallowed visibly, and nodded, his dislike of the smaller man as patent as his disquiet at the warning.

Turning on his heel, Kahn left the small room without a backward glance. The cold chill that raced down his spine followed the thought that Captain Hietz would rather shoot him than take his threats. Fortunately, Nadir Kahn outranked Hietz in years, experience, and influence with their employer…something a man of Hietz' temperament was not going to ignore. Nadir Kahn also had the reputation of a man who was not easily killed…and whose enemies never lived long.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The trip through Lyon to Le Corbusier seemed unusually protracted, perhaps because of the anxious bent to Kahn's thoughts. He could only hope he had stayed the Captain's heavy hand for at least another day, convincing him to use extreme discretion when he did go after Erik...or Jerrod Bouchard, as the Captain and his men knew the man.

It was the ultimate decision of their employer, the Minister that now worried Kahn. Knowing the man's fierce need to control all that fell under his political, personal, and public purview, Erik had done the last thing that would endear himself to his benefactor. Kahn's immediate dispatch to the Minister detailing the situation and requesting his patience would only do so much. Ultimately Erik de'Carpentier's life depended upon how much uncertainty the Minister was willing to forgive.

There was also the complication of Nazzier-e-Din's pursuit of the magician once known as Erik de'Carpentier, lately the 'Opera Ghost'. The Shah had played his hand when he sent Zamir ibn Hashim to France several days _prior_ to Erik's public execution. Hashim had been thwarted in an attempt to kidnap the ersatz 'Erik de'Carpentier' hours before the event; since he had never gotten near the prisoner the man's true identity had remained safe.

Hashim had thereafter appeared in the vast crowd gathered to watch a hooded Fantôme fall to the guillotine. There he was closely watched and constantly surrounded by Captain Hietz's men up to the moment the Opera Ghost was laid to his final unrest in a locked vault in the de'Chagny family cemetery.

There was no way the Persian could have known the man who died that day was _not_ de'Carpentier. None but a handful knew the genuine Erik de'Carpentier was miles from Paris by the time the blade fell, a new name and life having been given him, even as the old was severed. Vicomte' and Vicomtess De'Chagny, Montigue Abrigaun, Renee' Morneau, himself, and the Minister. Each one of the six had strong, compelling reasons to keep the secret.

Yet now the assassin had appeared in Lyon, openly seeking Jerrod James Bouchard. Someone had to have told them for whom and where to look.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Having eventually reassured the stubborn Gadreau that accepting medical intervention for his extreme pain would not cost him his job. Kahn recalled Dr. Mannard. Both Gadreau's were declared in need of rest and given help with their pain. Nadir immediately requested a proper nurse be found to care for both Gadreau's, and scripts were filled for those nostrums Doctor Mannard felt necessary for the comfort and recovery of his patients.

Anna Gadreau was manic with the expected pleasure of doing nothing beyond requesting her pillow plumped and meals fetched. She questioned Nadir carefully as to what she was expected to do. When he responded, 'nothing' her smile rivaled the sun in its incandescence.

For the very first time he noticed that despite her superficial injuries, the little woman was beautiful…a silver-haired, satin-skinned doll, with a figure that promised abundant delights. A jaded campaigner he might be, yet his body reacted involuntarily as muscles tightened here and there, and a smile pulled his face.

Anna Gadreau was apparently also a mind-reader; immediately her eyes swept him, top to bottom, and her expression became speculatively coy.

Kahn sketched a brief bow and excused himself.

The woman was a menace. He began to appreciate Aislyne's despair at keeping Erik from killing the little schemer. Emanuel Gadreau had his hands full.

Kahn checked on Emanuel after the physician had left, and found the man floating upon a cloud of poppy-induced optimism. "Three days! Three days and I will be good as new!" His woozy grin of supreme well-being, albeit drug-induced, reassured Kahn that at least the man was feeling more comfortable.

Once the nurse arrived, Kahn gave her his room number and asked that she call upon him if he was needed. Having done what he could for the time being, Kahn adjourned to his own quarters to make plans for the afternoon. First of all...to insist the Gadreau's be thoroughly interviewed...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The French gendarmes were out in force, combing the rail stations, coach lines, and watching the major roads for any sign of Aislyne Butler, now formally 'implicated' in the murders of Dietré Chanson and Thomas Xavier.

Anna had performed the 'implicating' just that afternoon, having done her best to insure Mademoiselle Butler suffered for her interference in Anna's seduction of Jerrod Bouchard. Two detectives questioned her while she reclined upon the bed, fashionably _**dishabille'**_ in pink silk and ecru lace. Both gentlemen were solicitous to a fault, pouring water into her glass and producing handkerchiefs when Anna was…frequently…overcome with emotion.

Kahn heard every word sitting at the table before the sideboard.

For decency's sake, the door to the room was left open, and Emanuel sat at the doorway, glaring silently at his sister. Several times he had been cautioned to control his rude interruptions and outbursts of cursing or he would be removed from the apartment altogether. He thereafter remained silent, attempting to shame his sister by his thunderous expression alone.

He was not successful.

During his interview, however, he was no longer quiet. He told both gentlemen of his sister's lack of judgment, providing several pithy examples from the past months, including her attempted seduction of Jerrod Bouchard.

Detective Marais, a fleshy, long-nosed gentleman with far too much facial hair, twitched with suspicion, asking with scant consideration for Gadreau's feelings, 'What kind of man behaves like a shy virgin when given a chance to bed a lovely woman like your sister?"

Incensed, Nadir Kahn jumped to his feet, exclaiming, "I remind you, you are a detective, not a voyeur!"

Emanuel Gadreau cast a hard look at Marias. "He was not a willing participant, monsieur. The poor man looked sick. It took a glass of the Mademoiselle's whiskey to snap him out of his shock!"

Both detectives traded looks, with one thereafter coughing protractedly into his fist. Kahn jerked viciously at his jacket lapels, pacing the sitting room, silently praying, 'Let us NOT begin to discuss Jerrod Bouchard!'

Emanuel further advised the detectives of Anna's unreasonable dislike of Mademoiselle Butler, and her open resentment of a woman being in charge. He told them Anna quickly became jealous of the growing friendship between Bouchard and Butler, and had done her best to lure Butler's patient into indiscrete behavior.

Detective Faraut seemed outraged at the little man's demonizing of his sister. "How can you speak of your own sister in such fashion! You seem…angry with her!" Faraut smiled at the subject herself, his look appreciative. At this point the subject of the discussion was looking most distressed, sniffing into yet another hankie.

Gadreau admitted he was not happy with his sister because she had chosen to use such a serious occasion to advance her vendetta against the Mademoiselle.

"Monsieurs, I am thoroughly ashamed of Anna. She has lied to and cheated those who trust _me_…and should be able to trust her…too many times." Shooting a long, level look at his scowling sister, Emanuel stated firmly, "I do not believe I will again trouble myself for her welfare. I am done with you, Anna. You have broken my heart with your selfishness too many times!"

Anna Gadreau instantly burst into wails and tears. "What will happen to me, then? What?"

The detectives eventually were able to question Gadreau about the beating, and the man who had administered it, although Anna's noisy hysterics made questioning him on specifics difficult. They finally closed their notepads and advised Emanuel Gadreau to shelve any travel plans until released by the French police to do so.

Emanuel looked glum indeed at this news. Kahn patted him on the shoulder, saying, "Now you need not feel guilty for taking several days to heal. Take your time. You can be assured the police will do the same."

Having seen both Gadreaus fed, and the nurse installed in a chair with tea and a book, Nadir spent some time in his room, staring balefully out the window. It was now time for Nadir Kahn to interfere in the investigation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Chief of Police was not amused when Nadir Kahn openly and loudly called him an idiot. "You have no witnesses; you have Butler's maid, who by her own brother's admission, hates Butler and will do her harm wherever and whenever possible. You have the seven gentlemen who arrived at the crime scene after being summoned by Butler's maid on her mistress's order. They found no reason to believe the Mademoiselle had murdered these men, and in fact, have told you this."

When the man had stared at him stonily, tapping his pencil and chewing his grotesque mustache, Kahn threw his hands skyward, exclaiming, "What is your motive? What would be the motive for a nurse-companion to torture and execute two of her own guards? This woman cares for ill people. I cannot believe you think she could possibly do what was done to Dietré Chanson! Five shots, man!"

Chief Inspector Pinault shrugged, saying "Women do these things all the time. It is the childbirth…it makes them all bloody-minded and short-tempered. You should know this Monsieur...er..._Inspector_ Kahn."

Stung by the dark gentleman's look of disgusted disbelief, Pinault became defensive. "Well, you tell me why else would Mademoiselle Butler dump her maid on a street corner and disappear? Does this not speak of guilt to you?"

Kahn contained himself with difficulty, and leaned across the Inspector's desk and to fiercely exclaim, "No! It says 'fear' to me! Fear of the men who DID murder de'Chagny's men, who tortured one for the direction to the de'Chagny party's hotel! Why else would these men then go to the hotel where Butler and her patient were staying, and assault the Gadreaus as well as the stable lad who cared for their horses? Why else was it reported the men repeatedly asked, "Where is he? Where is Bouchard?"

Pinault shook his head, declaiming, "Anna Gadreau told us of these men, claimed they brought her back to the hotel after she was dumped on the street corner. She says they were never at the railcars that she saw, and their subsequent actions do not seem related to the deaths of Dietré Chanson and Thomas Xavier. Anna Gadreau did tell us Mademoiselle Butler carries a gun...a very large handgun, hidden upon her person..."

Kahn scoffed. "I carry a large handgun. You carry a large gun also!"

Pinault shrugged. "I am not a woman. Nor are you, of course..."

Kahn leaned forward and spoke carefully, as if Pinault were a witless child. "Just as we are, Mademoiselle is in a business that requires she be armed. She is a bodyguard for her patient, just as Chanson and Xavier are...were!"

Pinault frowned, asking, "What kind of woman carries a gun? And why does her patient require three bodyguards? Eh?"

Kahn closed his eyes, in obvious frustration; he did not wish to go down this line of questioning at all. The less that was said...or known...about Jerrod Bouchard, the better. "Because the patient is a family member of the Paris de'Chagnys…the _very rich_ Paris de'Chagnys. Bodyguards are expected when they travel." Kahn prayed Pinault would be satisfied with that explanation.

The man positively radiated incompetence. He did not wish to stir up troublesome work for himself, and an Englishwoman was an attractive and easy target...being English. Kahn's only hope was that Pinault's fear of annoying one of the ruling families would override his eagerness to implicate a citizen of the British Isles. That the name 'de'Chagny' would serve to send Pinault down another path of inquiry.

The correct path would be nice...

Pinault had been pig-eyed with suspicion when Kahn first contacted him, offering to provide facts to go with the two bodies on the Pullman at the Gere de Perrache Lyon. He invited Chief Inspector Jules Pinault to interview Emanuel Gadreau, the hotel staff who witnessed the beatings, and the stable boy at Le Corbusier. He gave him written statements from the Gere de Perrache Lyon security officer and several of the gentlemen who had initially responded to Anna's plea for help.

Kahn made no progress until he handed Pinault his official credentials showing his rank and affiliation with a member of the current French Ministry. He followed that with his private badge as a member of _La Sûreté Nationale_. Until that point, he was treated as shabbily as any citizen of Lyon would be by this arrogant '_dayoo_.

Naturally, Pinault had better things to do than to personally interview servants and muddy stable boys. He sent two detectives who interviewed Anna for nearly an hour, most of which was spent appreciating her die-away airs and soothing her 'overwrought nerves.' They listened to Emanuel Gadreau, who refuted nearly every word his sister said, and a small flock of the maids and matrons, who had watched the beatings of the Gadreaus and stable boy. They interviewed the stable boy, who was, amazingly enough, on duty despite his horrendous appearance.

Kahn watched stonily, making the detectives extremely nervous.

And despite reasoned argument and the irrefutable evidence provided by witnesses, Pinault refused to seek the 'violent foreigner' who qualified witnesses reported was accompanied by an older Englishman in a large road coach and six guards. Instead they were tearing the city apart seeking one tall, thin Englishwoman, describing her as 'armed and dangerous.'

No one had mentioned Jerrod Bouchard, her charge, except in passing reference to a man with a scarred face.

That was the only circumstance in the entire wretched affair that did not give Nadir Kahn heartburn.


	48. Chapter Forty Seven

**Chapter Forty Seven**

Seated on a rolled pallet set against the side of the boxbed, I toed my booted feet against the crate where Erik sat, and leaned forward, wishing to be closer, heartened by the fact he, too, leaned my way. Choosing one of the shorter crates as his seat…no doubt to keep us at eye level…Erik's long legs still soared high past my side, with his boots upon the edge of the boxbed. Daringly, I lightly pressed my closest knee to his thigh; Erik had my nearest hand in his, his fingers pressing and rubbing nervously. In subtle ways we both sought a physical connection to the other.

Erik's demeanor, however, had become quiet, his expression remote. "I know not where to begin," he said, staring out into darkness. I squeezed his hand, seeking to reassure him, saying, "You need not tell me anything at all, Erik. This is not a good time, I think..." Or place, perhaps.

"No, no. Aislyne…you need to know who and what...Erik, I...am." His voice dropped...roughened... Pulling his hand from my clasp, he scraped back his hair, turning to face me…as if to insure I saw him clearly. "I will remind you, I am a convicted murderer...a criminal who was given the ultimate sentence by the French courts. I am a man without the slightest to recommend him, and nothing to offer any woman, much less a gently bred young lady such as yourself." His expression became increasingly bleak…yet his eyes stayed fiercely intent upon mine.

I met his dark gaze with studied impatience. "Erik, we have discussed this…we are, in fact…_beyond _discussing this." I reached for his hand, seeking to reestablish our physical connection to counter his withdrawal. He avoided me neatly; speaking quietly, he said, "Then you are a fool, Mademoiselle."

I 'humph'ed loudly, feigning irritation, hoping thereby to conceal the alarm and spike of pain his words gave. When he said nothing further, I pushed to my feet, growling, "Do I honestly _deserve_ this, Erik?"

He remained silent, his expression blank. Was I being tested? Indignant at the thought, I turned to march away, cursing in Gaelic, not bothering to moderate my volume...better anger than tears!

Before I could move, Erik grabbed my closest wrist, his grip punishingly tight. Speaking in a mild voice, as if to belie the iron grip upon my arm, Erik said, "Do not think to run away again."

Sputtering, I retorted angrily, "I was not running away, Erik. I was…walking away from _yet another disagreement_."

I stood at his shoulder fuming silently, anchored by one arm, awaiting his pleasure. When he again spoke, it was difficult to hear over the pounding of my heart. "Aislyne...my dear Madame Butler, you must know that I have…_nothing_…"

Gently I pulled at my wrist until he reluctantly released it. I rubbed at the aching flesh, realizing it was nothing compared to the aching bitterness I had just heard in his voice.

He was looking straight out into the dark behind me, unwilling to meet my eye.

"I care nothing for what you _have_, Erik. It is _who_ you are...here...and here." Lightly I flattening my hand upon his breast over his heart...then laying my palm upon his forehead. I could not help that my fingers then lightly caressed his beloved face. "I need nothing more than what is here."

He did not at first stir beneath my hand, and I felt the struggle within him. I allowed my fingers to touch his hair, smoothing it back…then resting there quietly. Suddenly he captured my hand again...and pulled it to his lips, to hold it there. We stayed thus for several heartbeats; I was shocked into tears by the sweetness of his capitulation.

"Very well, then. Madame has made her choice." His voice was thick, quavering with emotion, as would mine had I spoken just then. Still he did not turn his face to mine.

Looking down upon the top of Erik's head as he sat upon the low crate, I could easily see the irregular shape of his skull…the normal bulging forward of the frontal vault to the masculine supraorbital ridge, the flare of the zygomatic providing the elegant cheekbone upon his left. Not so the right, with its dysmorphic brow, twisted cheekbone and tortured surface. Below fell wide shoulders and deep chest though both were lacking the substance regular meals could provide. Down his back the points of his vertebrae were clearly discernable through the light woven shirt. His legs were over-long and unnaturally thin, his booted feet appearing wider than his thighs. Seen as a whole, Erik de'Carpentier would be one formidable specimen had he ever attained the weight and muscle his body was built for.

And I wanted to see that happen…wanted with my whole heart to nurture the body that supported the intellect and passionate personality that was Erik de'Carpentier...all that I so adored. I wanted to love him into a happier being, smooth every worry from his troubled brow, and bring sunlight into his dark, desperate life.

...W_hen had I succumbed so completely to this man? _

No doubt wondering at the unusual silence of the woman over his head, Erik eventually canted his head to look up through one set of outrageously thick lashes, single brow raised. I bent to kiss his forehead, solemnly stating, "Madame has indeed made her choice, Monsieur de'Carpentier."

Having made that declaration, I was rendered mute, as emotions over swept my already flooded sensibilities: relief and utter terror, elation and self-despair. Giving one convulsive sob, I covered my traitorous mouth with one hand, ashamed and frightened, and grinning like a fool.

Erik shot off the crate, grabbing my upper arms, totally ignoring my feeble attempts to hold him at bay and hide my face. Seeing his expression of concern become that of alarm and apprehension, I cursed myself roundly, loudly…and wetly…for the distress my silliness was causing him.

Which only served to further exacerbate his anxiety. "Aislyne…my dear…?"

I grabbed upon his shirt front, and laughed weakly, saying, "Erik, I...have so little to offer _you_...nothing, I have nothing!" Gulping, I closed my eyes, dropped my face, not wishing to see what effect my continued confession would have. "I am _not_ gently bred; I am but a landowner's _bairn_, one of ten, from County Cork, Ireland. My mother was the daughter of the local publican. Nor have I schooling beyond five years at a parish Catholic school. Then they...I was asked to leave…to never return! I was the despair of my mother…I broke her heart! I was…no! I AM an unmannered hoyden, who rides astride, and cusses impudently, who dresses with impropriety, and...behaves like a...a cornered badger when crossed. I have a _wicked temper..._", I turned my head away in shame, "...as well you should know."

Erik's silence unnerved me so, I then _wailed_ my greatest failing…the penultimate deficit to my worthless self.

"_**Erik...I do not sing! **_I _cannot!_ I whine and waffle so tunelessly the neighborhood dogs yip and howl in anguish when I try!" I swiped one-handed at the tears that sleeted down my fat, Irish cheeks, and slid in runnels at both sides my reddening nose. It tickled unbearably so that my nose began to leak, inevitably, annihilating any remaining shreds of self-esteem. I was reduced to using my sleeve, as my handkerchief was not to be found, however many pockets I patted.

Erik's hands remained clasped upon my arms, avoiding the beslimed wrack of my face. I could not raise my eyes past the shirt button at the 'v' of his collar, presently located atop the gathered twist of his shirt within my fist. When he did not speak, I reluctantly looked up between nose swipes to see why he had not spoken…why he had not pushed me away...

His brow was furrowed, yet the tiniest tic to his cheek betrayed his amusement. "Aislyne, you are doing ruinous things to my last clean shirt."

Abashed, I released my grip, lightly sweeping the fabric with my hand…smoothing it flat, feeling doubly foolish, and yet enjoying the feel of the warmth of his body beneath.

He grinned sweetly, his cheek rounding, his eyes alight with gentle humor. "Cannot sing, did you say? Oh my. That is…unfortunate…"

My cheeks burned, part instant resentment at his light manner, part abrasion from my rough jacket sleeve. Yet I realized I was not done with my confession…and knowing what I had yet to tell him, I felt ice form in my chest. "Erik, laugh if you wish. But I am not the…the woman you think me to be. I have… I…am…" I could not go on. I felt my face go bloodless as the words died unsaid behind my lips.

How was I to tell him of the darkness…the emptiness? How could I explain the reality of my birth, and the inhuman…soulless being I was?

Erik's expression softened, and I was pulled warmly against his body by one arm, even as his other wielded his soft shirt cuff to dry my ravaged face. "Aislyne, I am aware of these things about you…I do have eyes…and…ears. The cursing, and men's clothing," his rolled his eyes in pained contemplation of these lapses in ladylike deportment, "…as well your behavior resembling that of…_T__axidea taxus_ when crossed."

He laughed outright at my expression. So far he had not yet said one nice thing…not that I normally present many to speak of. His hand raised my sinking chin, and I met his eyes, which were no longer laughing…and felt my stomach drop, just as it did when one took that first high, solid wall of the foxhunting season…

No one has ever…_ever_…looked upon me with such intense passion and need, open adoration, and admiration. If I had any doubt of what I was reading in those sunlit green eyes, he erased all uncertainty with his lips…

"Aislyne…perhaps you cannot sing…but this"…and he touched my breast above my heart…"is full of music! I have always felt the music, felt it here..."...tap, tap..."resonating within my heart and soul, thinking others only heard it with their ears alone. But you…you hear it..._feel it_...too! I watched you make the hotel piano, stiff and sticky-keyed, sound as if it were shouting heavenly praises to God! Your face, "…and his thumb gently caressed my cheek…"reflected that passion! I heard your heart and soul in every note!"

My hands were raised, one at a time, and reverently kissed. "I believe the men who wrote the compositions you played would have felt honored to hear you do so."

"I care nothing how or where you grew up. I thank God you are here now! No worthier or lovelier woman ever walked this earth. In you I have seen true courage…the heart of a tigeress. I swear I have had to hide many base and craven impulses that I might not embarrass myself before you!

"And the five years of Catholic school did you no harm, Aislyne, I can assure you. You have a fine mind, an intellect and sense of curiosity to more than match mine…and the wisdom to have not called me upon that fact."

I was beginning to feel foolish, as his perception of me was totally foreign to anything I had ever thought of myself. Brave? I was terrified! And my 'soul' was nonexistant; and surely he realized I was but a child tapping keys compared to his inspired playing!

I knew I HAD to tell him…to confess what would most certainly give him a rightful abhorence for the abomination I was. Yet I was speechless… unable to do more than stare, paralyzed, into his face, as he continued.

"You have become my place of strength, Aislyne, a calm, sane refuge for this broken man. And I…I offer you everything I am, and everything I can be, if only I have you with me. I will be a man for you, and accept the future…whatever it will be, with you." He smiled, but his eyes were glittering strangely in the dim light.

Finally I was able to croak, "You cannot know…you do not know me at all! …What I am. Oh, Erik…" I reached for his shoulders, clinging as if to keep from falling to the floor.

His hands pulled me tightly against him, and he seemed to hide his face against mine, whispering, "Perhaps I know nothing about you. Yet you speak of your 'dark side.' Then perhaps that is why you can love me. I have nothing else."

I knew I was crying again, but if it was because of his words, or the tears that now wet his cheeks, I could not say. I still could not speak, unable to work past the knot in my throat. He pulled his face away and stared into my eyes…my heart…the shadow of my soul…and tenderly cupped my face within his large, warm hands.

"Aislyne, I believe you must see yourself being as…deformed and grotesque within as I know myself to be…here." His hand touched the right side of his face; I immediately laid my left hand upon that beloved flesh. "Like you, I can love that which you cannot. There is nothing you could tell me that would change that!"

Grasping his face in my hands, I pressed my lips to his. His reaction was immediate. Crushing me to him, he canted his head to avoid painful conflict betwixt my nose with his and joined the kiss.

Still unsure of the mechanics, we nonetheless brought boundless need to our kisses. I hungered for his taste, the sensations of his skin against mine, the heat of his mouth. His arms enfolded me in a warm, comforting haze of starched lawn, sandalwood soap and Erik.

His hands moved into my hair, fingers gently sifting, burrowing through until his fingers cupped my skull. His lips broke from mine, and gently he moved my head back. His words were soft, yet his expression reproving. "I am not a fool, Aislyne. Kissing me does not answer my original question."

I dropped my chin, thoroughly mortified.

"Is there a place in your heart for this…difficult man?"

Surprised, I snapped my head up, eyes wide. "You fill my heart, Erik...you _own_ it! I have no idea when it happened, but you have branded it yours. I would have never thought you would want it...or me..." Thoroughly flustered, I lapsed into silence, merely staring back into his face.

His mouth moved back to mine, and he whispered against my lips, "Kiss me." And I did. I poured every bit of myself into him, wordlessly laying into his hands all that I was; my heart, my life, my body. Had he laid me back across that crate and taken me, I would have opened myself to him without fear or protest.

I felt his answer, silent yet unmistakably _him_. '_And I for you, my darling Aislyne.' _

Too soon he abandoned my lips and stared into my flushed face. I was but half conscious, still lost within a heavenly half-swoon as stars reeled about the reflections in his eyes, and heretofore-unknown sensations left my body feeling drugged and fluid. Although my eyes fell even with the tip of his elegant half-nose, Erik bent his head as if to read more directly my languid thoughts. His breath was hot upon my face, although I noticed he was not near as breathless as I.

"Aislyne…you are beautiful! The fire in your cheeks, your lips bee-stung from my kisses! Mine! I am…so moved!"

From any other person, such words would have seemed...perhaps self-obsessed. But I knew Erik was in the same place as I...marveling at the reality that had once seemed as unattainable as the moon. We were two who had never thought to know a lover's touch, to know or ignite the slightest passion in another. Had I been able to place one word with another, I could not have spoken…his fingers were against my lips and his face...every inch, all just as flushed and bee-stung, mind you…rendered me silent at its beauty!

And then...he began humming, softly, the melody slipping deliciously from his throat to weave soothing magic about my heated sensibilities. Pulling my tingling right hand to his left cheek, he pressed my folded fingers against the perfect flesh there. I immediately cupped his right cheek with my free hand, whispering, "I adore _all_ of you..."

A sudden thought struck me as he kissed my knuckles, still humming the mesmerizing tune; I must be having an attack and have gone senseless...I am in a half-conscious dream state...therefore, he is humming! "I am...Am I...?"

I could not finish as he nipped one of my fingers… "You are not. Now hush, Aislyne...I am still making love to you."

I felt myself go slack-jawed and wide-eyed, near witless with anticipation; Erik grinned in wolfish delight, his white teeth flashing, then schooled his expression to one more loverlike. "Have I now your attention, Aislyne? I will not translate this to English…you must listen with your heart..._your soul_. Listen…"

_And Erik began to sing_.

_Tu mia vita_ _tu mio cuore_ _Tu mia sola aria_ _tu mio solo sole  
Grazie per l'onore, grazie per l'amore  
E specialmente sai, per questi sogni_

_Che vivono con noi.  
_

Releasing my hand, he lightly brushed upward upon my throat to the tip of my chin, raising it and drawing my eyes to his. With an inward sigh I relinquished my obsession with his mouth. There was something in the way his lips formed each velvet note…every syllable…

_Sei mia per sempre, _

_tu che lo sai  
Com'ero ieri, tu che mi volevi gia.  
Sei mia per sempre, tu che eri la,  
Voce nel buio dicevi: per te sono qua.  
_

His eyes were…commanding, wielding a power doubled by his voice. Both drew me inside him, even as I felt myself opened, laid bare, to know the great vulnerability in him that matched my own. He was reaching out to me through his song, to pull us beyond the terror of this new landscape that we now walked together. Strengthened, I welcomed his heart to speak to mine. Soulless I might be, but my _heart_ understood, and I was transfixed, lifted, transformed.

___Tu mia sola luce, tu che mi dai voce,  
Tu che dai speranza ai giorni miei,  
Tu che mi colori tutti i miei pensieri,  
Senza te sognare non saprei._

Vita mia tu sola, _solo tu mio cuore,  
Quel che sono ti regalerei,  
Dentro una canzone troverai da sola  
Un puo di quel bene che mi vuoi  
E specialmente sai in questi sogni miei  
Che hai regalato a noi._

As his voice caressed me, as tactile as any lover's touch, the meaning softly bloomed full formed, into comprehension: '_**My life, my light, my heart...be mine forever. My voice in the darkness, you are there for me. You gave back my dreams that we can now share**_.'

_Sei mia per sempre, tu che lo sai  
Com'ero ieri, tu che mi volevi gia  
Sei mia per sempre e sono la,  
Non piu nel buio, per dirti  
Per te io sono qua._ '

**…_be fo__rever mine…you knew me as I was yesterday...yet wanted me still. I am here...no more darkness...and I tell you I am here for you..._' **

_Per sempre mia tu sei vorrai,  
Per sempre tuo mi avrai,  
Per sempre noi._

He raised my hand in the final notes, wordlessly pulling me back to him. Instant and eager was my response; I flew into him, my arms about his neck, my hands in his hair, cupping his face.

There were two lifetimes of lonely dreams, of the faith...secretly..._secretly _held, that someday we too would know what it was to be so loved. There was in our embrace the sense of having come home, of finding that which meant true spiritual completion.

I have no idea how long we stood thus, sweetly lost in the wonder of being held. It seemed a natural thing that we would then lie down together in the huge pallet-stuffed box, arms about each other, and bodies touching from breast to toe. The passion was there, anticipation and longing all but overwhelming. Yet by some secret alchemy, we both agreed; this was enough. We would wait.

Here, trapped in the darkness of the hypogeum, hiding from death and those who would deliver it...this was not the place or time.

Eventually even the most ardent lovers tire, and I was beginning to again tremble with fatigue and hunger. I marveled yet again at Erik preternatural strength in the face of privation and exhaustion. Still, I begged him to stay and rest, pleaded with him to allow me to accompany him on his reconnoiter of the situation aboveground. I fell asleep whilst he considered the later request, whispering the softest of lullabies, his voice a comforting rumble against my ears.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aislyne falls asleep immediately, her arms wrapped about one side of her saddlebags, the other side pillowing her head. Assuming a near fetal position, she is backed up tightly against my left side, her head tucked just below my arm, which I find curls about her head nicely.

I lay still and listen to her breathing, fondling the silken glory of her hair. It is as cool and smooth to the touch as the finest silk, flashing copper and gold in the lamplight. I want desperately to bury my face in it…

I do not sleep in any position but upon my back, but find I must resist mightily the urge to turn and wrap myself about her slumbering form. I am afraid I would beg her to take me…love me, as only this woman can poor Erik. The mere thought of this has an uncomfortable effect, and I am thankful she is now asleep. I close my eyes and allow my need for rest to overpower the clamoring beast now rampant beneath my fly buttons.

I tell my inner clock to awake me after a solid nap of thirty minutes only. I will then see what Brother Aventurine has waiting for me at the studio…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My eyes open after the appointed thirty-minute nap. For perhaps the first time in a very long time, I am not driven to immediately rise and move... instead I linger, marveling in the rhythmic magic of her breathing beside me. Aislyne...this woman who loves me...and whom I adore!

Carefully, I lever myself upon my side, keeping the contact constant between her back and my chest. Once I am fully turned to her, I curve my entire body closer until it lightly cups her back and hips, and bury my face in the luxuriant mass of her hair, thrown casually behind her shoulder. I press closer, my nose to her neck, and am filled with the scent of woman…of roses and wool, soap and linen. There is the trace of warm body, a hint of musk. The immediate result is frighteningly physical, but more pressing at this very instant is the urge to sing…_amoroso et gaudioso… forte gusto!_To wake her with kisses and words of love, beg her to say 'I love you'! I am overcome by the buoyant delight of being alive. I am overwhelmed with physical lust and sheer male possessiveness. It is all a volatile mix...which could prove deleterious to the peaceful continuation of her rest!

And she needs rest...for all her strength of will, her body seems to have become narrower, her clothes looser. Wherein she was once slender… was it less than a fortnight ago?…she is now a wraith! Her eyes overpower her elfin face, and holding her in my arms I feel ribcage and hipbone where before there were womanly curves and some padding to her form. Therefore, she must rest...and I must hurry to bring good food and excellent news back to feed her body and spirit.

I roll away reluctantly, carefully, and pull on my boots, shrug into vest and coat. One last look to hold me till I return…

A thought sends me to one of the crates where I draw out the shabby opera cloak. Leaving her while she sleeps is the only way I can leave her...for beyond the passions she stirs within this humble breast, Aislyne, too would be in a passion had she known I was leaving. Passionate **rage**that I dare leave her behind!

Does she doubt my ability to escape capture by my enemies? Or does she have faith in her superstitious conviction that apart we are, somehow, doubly vulnerable?

I give thought to what could happen if I am unable to return and lead her from the hypogeum…and must immediately dismiss it else I would never go. Such thinking is foolish…and frightening. I chivy myself along, whispering "Hurry, Erik!"...sternly reminding myself the sooner gone, the sooner returned.

After penciling a small message to Aislyne and slipping it carefully about her finger, I again pat pockets to insure I have everything I might need.

Yes, the small pistol is securely in the coat pocket at my hip.

Choosing a small bulls-eye lamp from several set by the southern chamber entrance, I head for the Studio Rose passage at a trot, hugging the wall to the right. My fingers well remember the large bas-relief figures carved into the walls in a continuous strip between the doorways upon either sides of this hall. Whatever their purpose originally, they have always served as position markers for me, as they do now.

Soon my fingers glide over the distinctive design of straight lines and raised squares that immediately precede my intended exit. I step into the adjacent doorway, to stand before a door-sized granite block, step firmly upon the iron pedal at its base and press the block to the left and back.

After a bit of worrisome hesitation, it slides to the right. Entering the passage thus uncovered, I cue the release that resets the stone, and light the small bullseye lamp; setting my left hand to slide along the wall, I use the lamp to illuminate the floor. Moving again at a trot, I thus make my way through the tall, narrow passage to Atelier du Rose Verre, approximately 300 yards away.

The air is not stale as one would expect, its freshness a mystery I believe related to the series of fist-sized holes placed in regular sequence at the top of both walls. Years ago my investigations of the hypogeum included tracking the outlets to their terminus, hoping to learn the secret to their ability to ventilate the passages as well as the hypogeum itself without admitting damaging moisture or vermin. I have never learned their magic, as it would seem every one is a 'blind' opening, every one a dead end at varying lengths.

I have mysteries far beyond that of the Hypogeum to solve today. I begin planning the escape and future of Aislyne Butler and Erik de'Carpentier.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoOo~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I discovered the Hypogeum within my first week as a glassworks apprentice at the Françoise Verre in Croix-Luizet, having stalled there in my journey back to Paris after my years in Persia. I staggered into the small hamlet one moonless night, penniless, starving, dressed in rags, and leading a skinny, footsore black mare. We had walked, both of us, from the south coast of France, bound for Paris.

It was the smell of food that lured my belly, and thus turned my feet into Croix-Luizet. The yeasty scent of baking bread twined with that of roasting chicken and mutton pulled me off the back lane that passed the eastern edge of the town. My intent was to find the source of the mouthwatering aromas and reconnoiter with the idea of hiding the mare, making a clandestine grab of whatever I could, and disappearing. To be honest, I had not faired well in such endeavors thus far simply because I was not willing to attempt such things in the light of day. This entire scenario seemed opportune.

I left the mare in a grassy verge, where she immediately lay down with a low, heartfelt groan and began grazing. Confident she wasn't interested in wandering, I started down the narrowing avenue, keeping my steps silent, searching for the source of at least one of the hypnotizing smells that filled the air. The packed-earth street hardened into that of cobble-and-clay; buildings closed in, looming overhead, their facades a patchwork of different styles and diverse commerce. Despite the feeling I was doomed to failure, or worse, capture, I could not turn back. My stomach irrevocably overruled any discretion I might have had...

There was a bakery; behind its white canvas curtains were lights and activity. The double doors at the front of the establishment were thrown open to the chilly night air, releasing a palpable wave of warmth, redolent with the aroma of fresh-baked breads. Across the street the walls of a public house kitchen, open to the street, glowed red from pit fires overhung with joints of meat, and one entire hog spitted end to end.

Having faded into the shadows beside a crumbling stone bench, I stood giving the situation some thought...and was grabbed from behind, a blanket tossed over my head. I was too feeble to fight for very long, quickly subsiding, limp, into the arms of my attackers.

Dragging me onto my feet, I was frog-marched into a shed at the back of a small café.

Upon ripping the blanket from my head, thus revealing my face in the flaring light of several torches, I could not help falling into weak hysteric laughter at the sight of so many round-eyed, _citoyens provincial,_crossing themselves and praying sotto voce. Being skeletal in form and face, my nose leaking blood from several places due to a hard blow from a stray elbow, I likely appeared to be the walking dead. Risibility spent, I subsided into sullen, resigned silence, snuffing and gagging on blood, after most of the men fled, taking all but one torch. Only three men remained steadfast, shackled by their duty to insure the safety of their community, Croix-Luizet.

Thus I became first acquainted with the Brotherhood of the Glass in their role as the Defenders of Public Safety, specifically Brother Grinçant, Brother Aventurine, and Brother Obsidianus…soon to be Glass King. The other chickenhearted gentlemen were Brothers as well.

The dénouement was my recruitment as a glassblower's apprentice at Françoise Verre, and a meal for which I have yet to taste its equal.

I began work that very day; the work was bearable despite my unthrifty condition, and the pay was enough…maybe too much considering how I soon spent the surplus. Although living within a normal social setting, I still suffered from the emotional scars inflicted by my years in Persia. Once it was financially possible I began to isolate myself whenever possible. It was not long before I was again using narcotics to dull the horrific memories, and devastating guilt of my continued existence. But…only during my off-duty hours.

My subsequent discovery of the hypogeum came at a time when I was entertaining most unsavory ideas, such as joining the criminal class to support my vices and recondite lifestyle. The discovery of an underground historical site dating before the Roman occupation piqued my curiosity into healthier directions, and kept me working at the glass and living in Lyon far longer than I had ever expected.

It was curiosity that lead to the discovery beneath the undisturbed grounds at the outskirts of Croix-Luizet. During a late dusk walk to clear my head after a long day spent at the glass ovens, I tripped over what remained of an unused well hidden in high grass. A slab of limestone and a great deal of accumulated debris served as the cover; one side of the slab had recently fractured and fallen away revealing the secret beneath. Further investigation revealed a very deep well indeed, still containing water with a very interesting depression visible some distance down; a lamp lowered on a rope showed this to be a tall, square aperture located fifteen feet below the lip of the well.

Subsequent off time at the glass shop found me climbing down the side of the well in order to investigate the passage, armed with proper lamps, tools and safety line. I followed the passage…which in itself was amazing in its pristine condition…down to the complex of large, painstakingly correct chambers, all cut without seams from the living rock. The passage led to a round domed chamber, its walls decorated with intricate and ornate carvings…and a large basin made of translucent blue stone. A constant jet of water arched gracefully from an elaborately carved rock post into the basin…which never overflowed, despite the fact I could find no drain. I designated this chamber the Spring Room.

Passing through the Spring Room, one came to the barrel-vaulted room with the massive pillars set equidistant from each other and the four corners. This became First Chamber.

I soon found myself acquiring the equipment to measure and map the underground complex, using the same lighting, sighting and measuring devices being used across the city to explore the old Roman underground aqueducts. In the process of mapping the hypogeum I found passages that led up to ground level in several places, three of them being deep wells in varying state of decomposition, two of which still contained water. I restrained myself to modifying only one room to suit corporal needs, and concealed or filled most of the passages to inhibit discovery. The hypogeum became my home, First Chamber my primary abode.

Inevitably, as Etienne Carpenter, glassworker, I did well enough after a year's apprenticeship to insure I would not be living in penury when...or if...I returned to Paris. Because of a renewed interest in antiquities I wished to acquaint myself with the archeological explorations of the Roman building sites throughout Lyon. I applied to the Institute of Antiquities in Lyon to serve as a student apprentice, using a new alias, Aaron Woodman, the well-heeled third son of an English peer, with a letter of recommendation signed by Giuseppe Fiorelli, Director of Archeology at the University of Naples. My English was fluent, with the European manners and accent of a long-term British expatriate.

Professeur Coulanges never questioned my credentials nor the story of my disfigurement; my recommendations were genuine, even if my name and circumstances were not. During my apprenticeship with Master Buontalenti, in Italy, I was frequently sent to Rome to work with other stonemasons and masters there, and in the course of study, I met Fiorelli during his excavation of Pompeii. I spent several summers with his team working as a laborer, and later as a site overseer at several small digs in Italy and Greece.

As Aaron Woodman, it was soon an open rumor that I had suffered a grievous facial injury in a curricle race when a very young man, and had subsequently left England. I hid my face by use of the _shmaagh_ and _agaal_(standard Arab scarf and headband), and kept to myself, still dreadfully sensitive to the effect my face had on others.

My interest in freelance glasswork grew, and I was successful in developing several architectural elements and specialties made of glass. It was during this time I built the Glassmen's Hall, using those elements and many more besides. I initially built Atelier du Rose Verre to support the building of the Hall, employing two glassmen to whom I never entrusted the manufacturing secrets for the glass blocks. When the Hall was complete, I shut down the business and turned the studio into a gallery and artisans' shop, using it to launch young and untried glass artists through gallery showings in Lyons and Paris, and so it remains. The Studio does an important service to the arts, as well as continuing as a lucrative business.

I built a portion of the Glass Hall above First Chamber, naturally insuring the underlying portion of the hypogeum was able to bear the resulting stress. The topography of the land above was perfect for my vision of the Hall, and being located close to the complex of glass shops, it was disused, and easily acquired by the Glass Brotherhood. This served to protect the original wellhead from casual discovery, connecting the Hall Atrium to the wellhead passage and thereby the hypogeum.

I built my Studio some distance to the south atop another wellhead passage, this one being dry. It is this passage I am using now.

Moving about in dark tunnels was, of course, nothing new to me by the time I had established my humble living quarters in the First Chamber. The Populaire' was a maze of such tunnels and corridors, and those of the hypogeum were spacious in comparison. I seldom had to stoop, or even avert my head…and I am a very tall fellow. At six and a quarter feet (or just shy of 17 hands according to Aislyne) I tower over most men. In many parts of the opera house because of constraints in the room available, the byways behind the stage, back access halls, as well as secret passages behind the walls were short...seldom more than five and a half feet. I spent most of my time walking stooped, or even crawling upon all fours in order to snoop, spy, and generally confound the managers and performers at the Opera Populaire.

I now wonder that I had found such activity interesting, much less necessary…it all seems to have been nothing but the game of a childish fool… Or as Butler would put it, "pathologically immature." I can laugh at myself now...and pray my life is never again reduced to children's games to occupy my time. I am determined to leave the darkness and secret paths behind, resolute in my wish to live the rest of my days in the sun...with the woman I love.


	49. Chapter Forty Eight

**I wish to take a moment to thank my reviewers, Hot4Gerry, Hicdracones, and Phantom Night Owl. For you I post this chapter...I hope you enjoy it! ~~~**

**Chapter Forty Eight**

The palm-sized circle of light from my lamp soon illuminates the grated door at the end of the passage just ahead, still securely shut after all this time. I pull the hidden lever that pops loose the jamb locks and push open the large gate, which squeals like a tortured soul. After a moment's hesitation I swing out into the wellshaft, grabbing the solid iron ladder and giving it a good tug...it too is still secure. I climb it quickly, pushing up the trapdoor as I surface behind the closet connected to the secretary's office in the Studio. After carefully setting the trapdoor down behind me, extinguishing the bullseye lamp and setting it in a corner, I exit the hidden room through a false wall and pass through the closet to the offices beyond.

The large outer office contains the secretary's station, which was never used during my brief career of making art glass. No woman could endure the uncivilized and frequently lewd behavior of the revolving crew of young artists who came to work in the shop, much less the chemical-laden atmosphere inherent to burning hazardous, and unhealthy chemicals in the name of colored glass. The elegant ash-wood desk had at times served as a temporary medical couch for the wounded, and the frequent site of card games.

I enter the smaller manager's area, connected via a wide doorless entry.

A small safety lamp sits upon the large, tiger oak desk, illuminating a stack of account books set neatly beside it. Three sharpened pencils, all pointing across the room, are directly beside the books. The third account book contains the key to the cabinet the pencils point to, just two strides across from the desk. Kneeling before the centermost cabinet doors, I unlock them to find a large basket containing many wrapped packages, precariously topped with ripe apples, Anjou pears and a brace of golden oranges. Just the scent of the oranges makes my mouth water…

Beside the basket is a packet of documents wrapped in oilcloth. I stuff the packet into my shirt, place the basket atop the cabinet, and am relocking it when I hear the doorknob on the heavy double doors to the outer office rattle, and the rasp of a key in the lock. Nearly simultaneously, doors slam and feet pound the tiled hallway outside the office from both directions. There is a commotion at the door, and a voice commands, "Kick it in, Stineman!"

Looking about frantically, I curse the minimalist style of furnishment Brother Aventurine has embraced in decorating his small office. There is no time to reach the closet before the door begins to crack in half around the dropped floor jam…double doors are inherently weak. I have nowhere to go. Desperate, I slide beneath the heavy desk, and wedge myself into the knee space at the center, using my knees, elbows and hands to hold me up, then lifting my feet off the floor and hooking my toes on an edgement about the bottom of the knee space.

Oh, the things magicians can do! Of course, this magician is weakened after months of imprisonment. This magician is also trembling with hunger and exhaustion… But Aislyne is waiting for me…will be lost without me, trapped as she is in the hypogeum! I lock my body into the space, closing my mind to any physical complaint that will eventually seek attention. Thank God I have resisted Mademoiselle Butler's efforts to fatten me up!

The doors explode inward, and pieces of wood and metal parts skitter across the floor into the inner office, one coming to rest directly beneath where I am wedged in the desk…

Feet pound across the floor into the small office and suddenly a body is thrown into the desk to then fall hard upon the floor before it; I see a gnarled fist and the disheveled silver tresses atop Brother Aventurine's head.

Brother Luminere's voice is as oily as his hair, "What do you do here, old man? Waiting for the freak and his woman? Eh?"

Aventurine's voice is querulous as if weak with age and unhappiness. "What I do here is my business! What right have you to break in my door and treat me so. Who the devil do you think you are, young man?"

I wince when Aventurine grunts loudly after the sound of a kick. Luminere's voice becomes higher with frustration. "I ask again… Why are you here, Aventurine? You will tell me, damn you, if I have to kick it out of you! Why?"

Aventurine gasps a bit, then speaks, "I came for the food I purchased yesterday. In all the…excitement, I completely forgot it… See, it is there, on the counter behind you…"

"And you decided to fetch it now…at this unholy hour?" Luminere snorted loudly.

"It was to break our fast today…I wanted to give my wife a treat. It is our anniversary and I wanted it special. The fruit, you see…" After a moment, he continued. "I don't sleep well at night. I am frequently here, in my office, at odd hours, boy. It is the curse of the old." His voice is that of a tired, old man. My guilt is overwhelming…

There is shifting about of heavy feet, and the sound of whispering as several men report to Luminere. With a disgusted curse, Luminere again kicks Brother Aventurine, making him groan with pain.

I am at the end of my ability to endure Luminere's thrashing of an elderly man! _Aislyne…I must remember Aislyne…_

"Damn you, Aventurine. I know you are lying! This is no coincidence you are here, in **his **shop, when we are tearing Croix-Luziet apart looking for him."

Boots stride out of the office to the outer door. Luminere orders several of his men to check outside. "And you will be coming with me, old man, to spend the day in solitude. I no longer trust you enough to let you go. Your woman will have to celebrate without you."

Luminere tells someone to 'grab the old man' and moves to the hall. Two men lift Brother Aventurine between them; I hear a brief scuffle, and Aventurine widens his stance. "Keep your hands to yourself, I need no help! I am an old man, but I need no one to risk themselves for me!" growls Aventurine. His voice is strong, and his message delivered; he steps out surely, no longer slow or hesitant. No longer an old man…

I close my eyes and count boot steps and doors closing. Carefully I release one leg, then the other, moving slowly and quietly. Once I am again on the floor beneath the desk, I sit, and putting my ugly face into my hands, think, 'I am not worthy of this."

Boots and voices break the quiet; I hear Luminere's voice even as they pass the studio outside. "What a waste of time…we have one old man to show for our hours of planning! No, no…you will stay with me, Stineman, and we will go see what Hashim and Delcourt have found in the tunnel behind the glass case."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Waking up alone should not have been such a disappointment. I have done so more or less my entire life, minus those years I'd shared sleeping accommodations with one sister or another. And, naturally you cannot count the mornings I saw the new day from the same chair in which I had bid adieu to the last, sitting next to the bed of a dangerously depressed or dying patient. There were too many of those in my career as ward aide, then caregiver and companion.

Still, having fallen asleep with the warmth of the man at my back, his hand in my hair, and his breathing a soft, relaxed purr, it was a letdown to awake and find him gone. Upon pushing myself upright I found a black wool cloak, the gold silk lining torn and hem stained, spread over me. It carried Erik's unmistakable scent, along with that of some exotic essence, and my fingers could not help but tug closer the fine fabric that had surely once rode the Opera Ghost's shoulders.

Upon raising my hand to brush my unruly hair from my face, I found a strip of paper wound about my left index finger, which proved to be covered with a crabbed scrawl in pencil. I took a moment to rub eyes that ached from lack of proper rest, and was then able to decipher Erik's unsteady hand:

_I have gone for food and information. I will likely be back before you wake to read this. E._

In the name of economy, just one lamp was left alight, and I judged by the level of the oil from the time we had reclined upon the pallets, Erik had been gone for no more than an hour, depending upon the amount of time he rested first. As much as I might gnash my teeth at being…again…left behind, this time I would forgive it. Having no idea where or how far he would be going, I could only be a hindrance; I had no speed or stamina left. It was probably for the best he'd gone alone, and I would tell him that as soon as he returned.

Food would definitely be welcome, as my stomach had set to howling at just the _sight_of the word. With faint irritation I realized I would not be able to go back to sleep. I was, in fact, feeling more than a bit intimidated by the black emptiness beyond the light of the lamp, and exposed sitting in the great boxbed.

I pulled on my boots and visited the necessary, taking time to again splash my face and rinse my mouth with cool water. Returning to the 'camp' I found the teapot half full of cold tea; I filled my cup, and sipping at this, looked about the 'camp' for some distraction until Erik should return.

My eyes fell upon the sketchbook lying at the far edge of the lamp's light, the one Erik had been shuffling through earlier, and had then sent flying across the floor. Eager for distraction from a creeping sense of disquiet, I scurried across the darkness to where the sketchbook lay, grabbed it and raced back to the charmed circle of the single lamp. I felt silly to have spooked myself so thoroughly, but this did not keep me from forsaking the boxbed, and the feeling of being set on display...

I was irresistibly drawn to the small area behind the tall crate which held the lamp. It offered a 'secure' feeling and the chamber wall to support my back. Upon assuming a comfortable position, I found most of my body was now in the shadow thrown by the crate itself, yet the sketchbook was lighted well enough to see easily.

Flipping through the sketches, I was instantly in awe of the mastercraft and precision each revealed. Erik's pencil studies were elegant in line and scale…apparently nothing like his handwriting. His illustrations were either sweeping emotional stylizations, or near photographic depictions. There were several studies of the Glass Hall, including detailed layout sketches, blueprints in pencil if you will, showing the construction minutiae for the outer glass brick walls, the positioning of wiring and gas lines, the layout of the inner Sanctum itself.

The last few pages were of the sub-ground level layout plans...including the hidden passage from the Hall atrium that could only go to the hypogeum. A moment's calculation showed the atrium passage to be right at the cabinet of gem-cut glass…exactly where Brother Potash had left our bags.

The passage led off the page, and after a moments' further study of the sketch, I turned the page to find...the atrium passage entrance where it connected to the hypogeum. It was in the dead end room that housed the springhead, with its ornate pool and round walls. Apparently one of the carvings was bogus…a tiny sun shape set inside a large arrow pointing left, noted "_exitus gemmae_" with a diamond in a box. The 'gem exit'.

Should Erik not return, I now had an idea of where and how to escape this...tomb.

Shivering, I was immediately fighting off panic, a surge of adrenaline nearly sending me back upon my feet. Breathing deeply and reminding myself _he was coming back_…I fought for self-control. Grasping again at diversion, I returned to contemplation of the sketchbook, flipping the page...to find the layout of the full hypogeum.

It was no surprise Erik had explored it, apparently using compass and theodolite to measure direction and relative elevation for each of the main corridors and chambers. Noted in carefully blocked writing were indications of width and length of rooms, as well as height and relative grade, with the north/south axis clearly marked through each room. As large as this chamber was, it was but a small part of the entire complex according to Erik's map. There were more rooms, two of which were large chambers like this. The directional rosette included on the drawing showed the dead-end spring room as the northern-most end of the complex, which was all laid on a central axis, north to south. The wide hallway at the south end of this chamber eventually split into four smaller corridors, the outside two curved away and back north, to each dead-end into large chambers. The two inside corridors simply continued with a vague indication they were much longer than the page allowed in scale. The eastern ended with a notation of "_flumen subterraneo_"; the western "_exitus aqueaductus_".

There were exit passages leading to surface positions indicated, with the terminus indicated by initials and a small icon of the sun. One passage was labeled "AR" with a rose and sun...I presumed it to be Erik's studio, further deducing it most likely the exit Erik had used tonight. I noted its position on the map of the hypogeum, which put it at some distance along the southern hall. There was also an exit in one of the large chambers that surfaced near the river to the north.

Erik had obviously insured he had easy access to this underground mausoleum from several locations, and I wondered at his desire to live away from others even thought it seemed he had been accepted amongst those he worked with aboveground. An artifact of his bitter childhood, no doubt, and the pathological horror he held for exposing his face to casual view. I remembered Christine's mention of Erik's mother having neglected her son because of his disfigurement…having done something unimaginable to him because of it. I now had a strong idea of what it was, remembering the sense of abandonment and betrayal, and the iron cage.

Yet in my mind Erik did not display the empty sensibilities of an individual who had never known nurturing affection as a child. There was the sense of someone there…a woman's spirit…who had tended him with affection and gentle respect, guiding him as a parental figure. I saw her in his true charm and civil manner, and in his (albeit carefully disguised) empathy with others. I could hear her in his voice when he sang, a silent partner who had instilled an emotive quality to his singing beyond his own life experiences.

And thus… despite the inestimable damage done to the child by his mother… his passion for the goodness to be found in life seemed intact. Erik had known the nonjudgmental, nurturing love of a parental figure in his earliest years. I felt this _strongly_...

Because...Erik was no heartless monster bereft of all but the most basic human emotions. He was instead a man driven from life, and into exile by the cruel manipulations of others, their number few but their moment in his life significant. There were those times when I could see them as well in his behavior and thoughts…the cold rage and thoughtless cruelty. And the self-hate…that evil only another could plant in one's mind.

His greatest fear was of rejection...it colored everything he did. His first reaction was to push away any who drew close. I understood that better than he would know...or maybe not. Had he not vowed to love that in me that I could not?

Closing my eyes, I allowed my head to fall against the wall behind. Where was Erik now? Was an hour and a half too short a time for him to complete his errands; was I worrying too much...too soon?

Was he safe?

I stiffened my spine against the wall…I would not doubt him. Was he not, after all the 'Opera Ghost'…or as one newsrag chose to call him, 'Le Fantôme de l'Opéra'… I felt sure no one would see him unless he wished them to.

Which reminded me of the conversation we had never had concerning just that particular persona.

I refused to believe Erik de'Carpentier was a mass murderer who stalked his hapless victims after dark in the streets surrounding the Opera Populaire. And recalling his reaction to Chanson's allegations against the Opera Ghost...no, he was no perverted, pederastic monster who assaulted children, either!

Even as the Opera Ghost, Erik had been the man he was now.

Behaving the ruthless tyrant at the opera house itself, using a 'ghostly' presence to influence the quality of the productions…this I could believe of Erik. He would lose himself in the music and performances of the operas and I know he would demand nothing less than excellence in 'his' opera house. Just as likely were tales of the Ghost's terrifying episodes of temper.

I had intimate knowledge of the intimidating nature of an irritated Erik!

For all his stated rejection of the society of man and the world outside the Opera house, why had Erik covered his underground home with painted murals of people and places...people in shops and restaurants, strolling in the park or city streets, visiting among themselves or riding along country lanes. Two of the more sensational news rags had reported there was a mural, in the large room that contained his Cavaillé-Coll concert pipe organ, of elegantly dressed concert goers…hundreds of faces intent upon the gothic ornate organ and its gleaming ranks of brass and oak pipes. Intent upon him as he played. L'Express characterized it as '_the blatant ego-polishing of a madman..._'

I saw it as an expression of a _**dream**_...

He had given himself the illusion of living amid the simplest tableaus of human experience, and one perhaps he found most fulfilling...performing his music for a rapt audience noted in lifelike variety. If these indeed reflected where and what the man wished his life to be, how very sad that paint was the only way he could find to bring that to his world.

…_Until he reached out to a sorrowing little girl and offered her solace for her heartbreak_.

Christine had become his connection with the life he coveted…above ground and among the vibrant living. Erik showered her with his time, his talents, his loving care, and in return received the only close human interaction he thought he would ever know. He believed it to be the voice lessons, the piano, the gifts without number that bound her to him, unable to see the strong, honest affection she felt for him.

And when Christine inadvertently threatened all by falling in love with her Vicomte, Erik's subsequent actions were unfortunate, but I refuse to judge him too harshly. When Erik realized the price of his happiness was Christine's...he released her and her vicomte, unharmed. Vividly I recalled Raoul's affecting narration of that moment, and my throat grew tight at the imagined scene:

"_As it happened, he demanded Christine stay with him to buy my freedom... my life... And to show him she would do it, Christine...she kissed him. And...he let us go. I know he did this because she was willing to stay with him in order to save my life._

_"Mademoiselle, he could have let me go and made Christine stay... But he wept when she kissed him. My God, it was terrible, the look in his face... It haunts me still, Mademoiselle. I had never seen a heart break, but I did then. And he told Christine "Untie him and go!" He set us both free."_

I saw Erik's face as clearly as though I had been there; it was of a man without hope, sick unto his soul by his own actions. Ultimately he had put this young woman's needs before his, knowing the outcome would mean he return to darkness and desolation. Was this not true nobility? Is this not the action of a gentleman...the very heart and soul of decency?

Of course, Erik did not see this. He saw himself as the most heinous of fiends incarnate, who had destroyed Christine's wish to ever sing again.

I knew of his crushing shame for the nightmare he had inflicted upon Christine, and his belief she had given up her singing because of it. I could offer him no reassurance, as I had not heard her so much as hum a tune during the few days I spent with the de'Chagny's. His agonized question, 'Does she no longer sing?' and the ceaseless guilt that wore upon his spirit...it troubled me. I could not escape the oppression of spirit when his thoughts were in this bent, although I had no doubt the intensity for me was but a shadow of what he suffered.

Was it not inestimable he sought Christine's forgiveness through the lullabies he wrote for her? He did not gnash his teeth and rage because she was not 'his', nor did he now mutter or make threats against de'Chagny. My message delivered from Christine had brought such light to his spirit, it had shown…I swear…through his eyes. I had needed to move away to dry my tears, under the guise of allowing him to control his own.

Despite my initial doubts, I now knew that Christine knew Erik de'Carpentier as few could.

And...perhaps it could be said that others knew him as well...by his heart, his careful warmth of character, his genius. Chanson had immediately accepted Erik, given his friendship freely...and Chanson was no fool. Brother Aventurine had practically cried with joy to see him again. An entire Hall of Brothers had rioted in defiance of their King in his defense. In fact, barring the slimy Brother Luminere, none whom we had met on our travels had ever reacted to his face as Erik was sure they should. There was acceptance or total disinterest…none of the hysterics Erik expected upon sight of his 'monstrous' visage.

Why did Erik not see the true effect…or lack thereof…his disfigurement provoked in those about him? He was an astute individual, an artist who had indubitably studied the nuances of expression and emotion on the human face and form. He was well read, obviously had traveled in his life. Surely he was aware his disfigurement was scarcely remarkable.

And even did he stand amongst a sea of physical perfection, he was no gargoyle or monster, no abomination!

I realized I was doing naught but carrying coal to Newcastle arguing this with myself. The point was moot...it no longer mattered how he felt about his face…because I loved it, I wanted it and the rest of him besides. Quite frankly, it was his mind and heart that bore the worst scars, and yes, I loved them too, loved every particle of the magnificent being that was Erik de'Carpentier. How could I separate what he was from what he thought…how he felt? Impossible.

Erik had changed in the few weeks we had spent in company; the sarcasm and brittle defensiveness had eased, and within the close confines of the Pullmen, he had lost most of the protective preoccupation with the right side of his face. The day we met in the shopping district came immediately to mind…and I saw him again as he crossed the busy thoroughfare, long-legged and elegantly handsome, hair fluttering away from his face, both scarred and pale perfection quite open to view.

I could vividly recall the way he drew all eyes, the whispered hiss from Anna as he gracefully leapt the kerb, and the giggling young ladies to whom he tipped his hat. And then he was before me, and his searching look was as intimate as a touch. I blushed to remember the intensity of his gaze, and the way the world around us had seemed to recede and fade, until it contained just we two...

_Was it then I realized what my foolish heart had done?_

An undefined longing twisted within my body, as outrageous ideas of such intemperance filled my head as to make my cheeks burn. My arms ached to hold him, to feel him...all of him...with all of me. I wanted to taste his skin, to bury my nose in his hair, his neck... I needed him with a fierceness that left me weak and hot and near witless. Was not such passion and excess of feeling the domain of the young?

Frightened by my thoughts and the physical response I had no idea how to control, I groaned aloud and hugged the sketchbook to my chest. 'Please, Erik, be here safe, and be here soon!'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Drowsing, head nodding, it took me several seconds to realize I had heard something…a hollow thud…

My first thought was, of course, Erik had returned…but native caution kept me from jumping up to greet him. Light was now visible in the spring room, a great deal of light…in fact, two torches.

Erik would never carry a torch down here…much less _two_.

Before I could gather my nerve to rise and run, both torches were through the spring room and into the chamber; two men swiftly crossing the floor, closely followed by a pair of uniformed guards holding rifles. Barely hidden behind the tall crate in the shadow thrown by the crate's edge, I alternately cursed myself for being the coward, and prayed for another chance to run. It was inevitable I would be discovered. Their use of the torches could help me for a few moments, as using them tended to 'burn out' one's detail vision in dim light. But I needed a large diversion…a few seconds of inattention…something. Casting about I realized I had nothing useful for either diversion or cover…except the lamp, and the pistols.

I did not think I'd be capable of shooting myself out of this. Nonetheless, I kept my hands upon my firearms, one in my side holster and the other beside me on the floor.

Stopping outside the camp itself, the two guards put their rifles at rest, looking about uneasily. One man I recognized immediately as he spoke English with a definite East London flavor. Handing his torch to one of the guards, he moved a bit further into the camp site, rubbing his hands and smiling widely.

"How clever of you to know to look for this place. Although, it would appear our lovebirds have flown. Damned extensive hole for your man to have excavated himself, don't you think Hashim?"

The Englishman glanced around at the other man, who was waving his torch about uselessly. This was, unfortunately, exactly who I feared. He no longer wore the blond stovepipe hat, but the dreadful cudgel stuck from one coat pocket. Suddenly escape became any way of keeping myself from being at this demon's mercy.

The man cursed, tossing his torch onto the floor, nearly onto the boots of the guard standing behind him. "You are an idiot, Delcourt! _He _did not build this…this is the work of the ancients! Your people were still eating their meat raw when this was built." Hashim's disgust with his cohort was patent.

The Englishman laughed good-naturedly at the scowling Hashim. "So, that is what he does…finds a hole in the ground and hides until evening?"

"Yes...he hides...like a jackal in the desert. He must be here, where else could he be! Make them search!"

Delcourt immediately snapped his fingers, motioning to the two uniformed men, saying, "Go look behind those cases against that wall." The guard holding the torch put his rifle upon the floor, and holding the torch high, walked behind the other. The armed guard walked along the rows of crates, poking with the rifle's attached bayonet, and kicking into the darker shadows. I again recalculated my chances of escape…

"…And behind that strange…bed." The Englishman waved to where the boxbed was pushed close to the wall, much nearer to where I hid in the shadows. He then turned to Hashim, and poked him repeatedly in the arm, apparently immune to the taller man's resulting glares of acute irritation. "Why do you suppose that…bed, whatever…is so big? Did he have a harem down here too?" Delcourt took several steps forward, then looked again to the armed guard who now walked over to look about the boxbed…

"Stab at those pallets...you never know...I understand they are both incredibly _thin_…"

The demon Hashim laughed nastily, saying, "No woman could stand to be near him, much less a harem!" He returned to watching the soldier…who would, very soon, see me…

Shoving myself up the wall to my feet, I aimed the pistols, one each at the Persian…Hashim, and the two guards energetically investigating the pallets in the boxbed. "You may stop searching now." I spoke as strongly and calmly as I could muster, considering I was near to disgracing myself in terror. My voice sounded very odd to me, because I was actually screaming incoherently in my head.

The guard vandalizing the boxbed yanked up his rifle, extending it to bring against his shoulder for the shot. I shot him instead...or rather his rifle, shattering the stock and breech…and mangling his hand in the process. He spun around, and fell halfway into the boxbed, gasping and moaning in French.

I watched the other soldier peripherally…he looked to the Englishman and Persian for guidance. "Shoot her!" screamed Hashim.

Keeping the Sheffield pointed at the tall man, I no more than dodged one look his way before the guard held up his hands, saying clearly, "I am unarmed" in French. At my gesture, he obligingly moved to where the other two stood, pointedly far away from his rifle.

I looked with sick guilt at the man crying and bleeding copiously upon the pallets in the boxbed. I whispered, 'S_uis_...ah..._désolé..."_

The Englishman made a scoffing noise, and turned away, his expression disgusted; Hashim began cursing in _Farsi_…and then walked several steps towards me.

I sighted the Sheffield, saying, "Stop. I will shoot you." I swore I would not show the smallest bit of fear.

He held out his hands, as if in entreaty, saying in his strangely accented English, "Please, put your heavy gun down, Mademoiselle Butler. I do not wish to hurt you… Why, I've come to rescue you from the monster who kidnapped you." His smile was very big…and never reached his wicked, black eyes.

"I do not need rescuing, unless it is from you. No, no! Please do not step any closer…"

Yet he did, taking two strides, to stop but ten feet from where I stood pointing the pistol at his head. His grin was huge, his eyes wide…instead of appearing the least bit benign he looked entirely evil.

I realized I could take care of a very big problem by simply shooting the man dead. Erik would be safe, I would be safe… The other man seemed subordinate to the foreigner; I did not think I would need to shoot him…

I actually tightened my finger upon the trigger, ready to send the man back to Hell where he belonged...

…And could not do it; my finger stuck. I could not kill him…shoot him out of hand! I had never shot another living thing before in my life…just clay and paper targets, wooden forms made for the purpose, the occasional tree stump. I had meant to shoot the cursed rifle out of the guard's hands, instead of hurting him so badly. And that was the first time I had ever shot at a living thing. No…I did not believe I could coldly kill an unarmed man outright, dangerous or not.

This self-revelation must have shown upon my stupid, transparent face.

The Persian laughed softly, his expression becoming slyly arrogant. He apparently put my inaction and look of sick self-disgust together and made the obvious conclusion, i.e. I could not summarily gun him down. His voice oozing false bonhomie, he cajoled, "Yes, yes, mademoiselle…put the gun down. You are not so heartless that you can just shoot me? Then, of course you must realize that I am not going to hurt you." He canted his head and again smiled with oily insincerity.

I narrowed my eyes and smiled back, fighting the urge to pant in terror. "True, I have never shot an unarmed man before. I am rapidly warming up to the idea, however." Cocking my head as if considering my target, I straightened my arm and aimed for the tiny protuberant mole at the epicenter of his malevolent eyes.

"No, nonono, you and I must talk! Only that! Then my friend and I will leave you here, if that is what you wish. I am not, after all, here for you, Mademoiselle. I want the monster who brought you to this…"dropping his thick, dark brows, he grimaced, "…this tomb."

Oh, dear, how demoralizing to find we felt the same of Erik's cozy home. Sighing heavily, I said, "I have nothing to tell you. He is certainly **not **here." I made myself look very unhappy.

"But, Mademoiselle, you expect him back, yes?"

Scowling ferociously, I snapped, "**No, I do not**! Why do you think he would come back for _me_?"

"Ah, Mademoiselle! You make jokes with me. You are his lady, are you not?"

Pinch-lipped, I glared at the demon. "Are _you_ making fun of me now? Do ALL men find it amusing to make sport of older women?" I waved the gun about quite rashly, as if becoming unhinged and more angry, saying, "You are not amusing, sir…not…at…all. **He is GONE, and good riddance, DAMN HIM!"** My vehemence surprised even me as my shout echoed off distant walls, _"…damn him! am him! mhimmm!…"_

I could only hope I was convincing... Theatrics were never my strong suit.

His face clearing of its amiable expression, he stared at me with ill-concealed suspicion. The Englishman and the uninjured guard, both of whom kept their hands out in plain view, appeared riveted by our conversation. The wounded guard lay half in the boxbed, bleeding and moaning pitifully. `

The Persian tried his charm and good looks yet again, as head tilted and hands fluttering, he simpered, "Mademoiselle…if he has, as you say, left you here…then he is a fool! Surely such a beautiful woman… I would never treat you so…!"

Teeth set in bona fide disgust, I stamped my foot, hissing, "Stop it, damn you! Just go away! I have no interest in how you treat women, you devil!" I did not need to fabricate my impatience with his flattery, but stomping my foot was probably a bit much.

Was he honestly leering at me now? Did the bastard never accept 'No'?

"Then perhaps you will allow me to at least help you from this place, Mademoiselle? You can certainly trust me, and I will give you every…_attention_…"

"Please…just go! I want none of your...attentions!" Becoming exasperated by his persistence, I wondered if he was trying to make me shoot him!

The Persian turned to his English friend, saying, "Why do European women seem to enjoy love best when it is _forced_ upon them?" He turned back to me, his expression no longer teasing or congenial. "Maybe this decision needs to be…not of your choosing. I _**will **_take you with me, Mademoiselle. I care little what you like…and rest assured, I will show you how I treat women!" He raised one brow, and made as if to take a step forward.

I dropped the nose of the pistol to point directly at the front of his tightly fitted trousers, and smiling Bouchard's wolfish grin, purred, "Oh…what? Will you offer me the choice of either your dagger or your…attentions?"

I had no idea from where the words had come, but their effect on Hashim was instant. He stopped short as if yanked, his assured demeanor arrested. I leaned toward him, adding, "Because it would then be best you kept your dagger handy!"

He cursed nastily, then growled, "I will gut you, you…!"

It was then I tossed the empty single shot at his head, and shoved the lamp off the crate directly at the man's boots…where it literally exploded into flame, throwing burning oil over his long coat and about his feet. Dodging to the side I ran two strides then switched direction, making for the huge pillar that stood between the campsite and the chamber's center. The working rifle roared behind me, the shell snapping into the floor some distance ahead. A pistol barked, bouncing a round off the floor and ricochets sparked in my path. I realized I had certainly made an effective diversion...but had made it possible for the others to see me far longer as I ran for the exit to the long hallway.

The Persian demon began screaming, his voice echoing madly off the red flickering walls of the chamber. "Shoot her, damn you! Are you afraid to actually HIT HER?"

I reached the pillar and changed direction, keeping it between me and their bullets for as long as I could as I ran for the southern exit. No further shots followed, but running boots on the stone floor did as I raced through the south doorway and headed down the wide hall, making no effort to hide the sound of my feet. I needed to get out of sight before I could worry about them hearing me, and there was only one way to get out of sight. I would not be dodging into side rooms…of which I knew there were several.

The idea of being trapped in an underground dead end by the enraged Persian was so terrifying, I refused to give it thought. A gibbering fetal position at this moment would be damned counter-productive!

Assuming the spring room passage was forever closed to me, I tried to recall Erik's map of the hypogeum to choose an alternate passage out. I knew the split into four separate corridors was ahead…somewhere; it was a matter of choosing one that now concerned me. The rightmost hall went to a large chamber, as did the left. Only one of them had a passage out articulated on the map…and I could not, at the moment, remember which one it was. East or West?…or indeed where the blasted passage was in the chamber!

Adrenaline and fear were affecting my memory; I was in full bolt, as if a mindlessly panicked horse. Yet I continued to lengthen my stride, praying I was still a good distance from the branching of the main hall.

The torches were now so far back they were no help to me in discerning what was ahead. After a five-second internal discussion among the jeering, screaming Greek chorus within my head, I decided to take my chances with either of the center corridors, as BOTH eventually went somewhere other than down here. I slowed, thinking the echo coming back from before me was certainly changing…I did not wish to run headlong into a stone wall. I began keeping my hands before me, elbows bent, but jogged blindly forward, praying I did not lose too much of my lead on the fiend behind me by slowing my pace.

Suddenly bullets smacked into solid rock just a few meters before me, hitting rather high; ricochets of rock whined about, and I felt a sharp sting as something grazed my temple. Ignoring the pain, I felt confident enough of the distance to move a great deal faster until the sound of my heels were being thrown back instantaneously. Two strides and my hands found a wide edge, heavily carved. I stepped sideways until I reached the next corridor, and then a solid wall. More bullets snapped overhead, although much lower than before. Turning I could now see the bobbing heads and shoulders of two men, one obviously taller, lit by a torch…too soon they would be here. Bypassing the first corridor entry, I dived down the second, thereby guaranteed to lead out to somewhere other than the hypogeum.

Reaching out my hands to the widest extent, I could span the corridor, and on both sides my fingers brushed over a tracery of lines contained in a strip that ran horizontally on both sides. I swept my hand upon the floor before and behind me, and found it was as the rest of the Hypogeum. No dust lay upon these floors. They would not be able to choose the corridor I had taken by my footprints either. I shoved the revolver into my side holster to free my hands, and moving as quietly as I could, I began jogging down the corridor, one hand before me, one on the wall. Moving from blackness into blackness took away any sense of progress; my footsteps seemed unnaturally muffled, as if my hearing was affected.

I turned to find I could no longer see the torch, although I could still hear the Persian screaming, muffled…indistinct.

I turned and trotted on, hand upon one wall and the other in front of me, praying Erik had mapped the corridor I had taken correctly. I did not wish to fall down in some hole, or run into a cross wall.

It felt as if I ran for hours.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~O~~~~~~~~~~~

Reviews are always Welcome and Appreciated!


	50. Chapter Forty Nine

I am so excited to post this chapter…it is one of the very first I wrote. I tend to write scenes ahead especially when they are threaded throughout the story. This is a shortie...

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

**Chapter Forty Nine**

_Erik has often heard that panic and fear tend to distort the senses. _

It would be reasonable to assume that at his advanced age Erik would have experienced these emotions and effects heretofore; his existence has not been without its moments of extreme alarm and anxiety, after all.

_**Erik had no idea.**_

Endeavoring to cover the distance between Atelier de Rose Verre and the first chamber of the hypogeum, Erik must concentrate on doing so without succumbing to pulmonary seizure. This is only accomplished by holding off the inevitable near-mindless terror of what he will find upon achieving his goal. Despite the blur of his moving feet and the frenetic light thrown by the swaying bullseye lamp, Erik feels as if he moves through chilled _mélasse_.

He is having a very bad dream playing _adagissimo_.

Staggering into the first chamber, Erik sees a burning torch lying upon the stone floor, flame pulsing as it consumes what little remains of its kerosene fuel. He rushes to the boxbed, and stares in horror at the slashed and stained pallets, a dark pool of viscous fluid marking that upon which Aislyne slept. Large drips and spatters cover the floor before the bed, gleaming black in the madly flaring torchlight.

The result is a coruscating nightmare, sending Erik to his knees before the bed. Erik cannot fully recall his thinking at that point as he is..._no longer thinking_.

**Erik screams**. Erik rages. Nearly he flies up the Atrium passage, to run into the night, roaring for Zamir ibn Hashim.

Erik's failing body cannot do that which the shouting in his head demands, however; he instead crouches beside the pallet bed, staring at the blood...so much blood!

_'She cannot have survived...' _Erik moans...

Erik places his hand lovingly into the blood pooled on the pallet, imagines it still warm from Aislyne's body. Placing his hand onto his breast, over his thundering heart, Erik leaves the handprint of blood there.

It is fitting Erik die thus, with her upon his breast, over his heart, forever staining Erik's skin. Erik collapses as the pounding in his chest and head become a rhythmic, blinding agony.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_A cool, gentle hand pushes the hair from my eyes, as a beloved face hovers above. Her fingers brush my cheeks, one loving caress for each side, right then left.  
_  
"Get up, Erik! The sun has promised us a fine day for our trip to the music shop! Here, Newton...wake up your boy!"

Newton, being nearly twelve pounds of fat, affectionate tabby, lands upon the bed with weighty gravitas, lending his tickling whiskers and rough tongue to Nanny Tess' efforts to rouse me. I groan loudly, rubbing my chest, muscles aching from the activities of the previous day. "Nanny Tess, I am so sore...", but I smile in memory...tree-climbing is now among those of my most favorite things to do, second only to making music.

I love climbing to the very top, hugging the swaying center bole of the tree, far above the 10-foot brick and concrete wall. The back garden becomes a doll's landscape from twenty feet above, and I can see beyond the enclosing garden wall. This is the only way I have ever seen the houses, land, streets surrounding my home. This is the only way I have ever seen the whole of the stately edifice of brick and stone that is my home! It is an entirely new world now that Nanny Tess has allowed me to climb the tall horse chestnut tree in the garden.

"All children climb trees. And you are old enough now, Erik…" I am old enough, as today is my sixth birthday.

Nanny Tess has moved to the kitchen, leaving me to perform my morning commissions, and to then clean and dress myself for our outing. Outings are special…few and infrequent…but today's is especially exciting as we will pick out a new violin as my old one is too small. Fashioned for me by Master Luthier Jean Baptiste Vuillaume when I was 3 years, it seems but a toy when I hold it now.

I make up my bed, playing with Newton by fanning the coverlet so he may rush about and pounce upon the billowing folds. I lay out my soiled clothing and tree-scuffed boots for the maid, and set my waste basket by the door for Gervase, the houseboy, to empty. I put a piece of hard candy twisted within an small piece of scratch paper, upon which I've drawn an amusing sketch, beneath the basket for him to find, as always.

It is then to the washroom where I soon emerge, washed, brushed, and ready for the clothes Tess has laid out for me.

I am pleased to see the long charcoal wool pantaloons with the matching wool jacket, cut exactly as an adult's, and the white lawn shirt with buttons at the neck instead of ties, although it still has plain cuffs and a round collar. I shall look nice today, even if I will have to wear the mask. I hate it above all things, as it makes me the object of stares and cruel whispers, no matter how quelling or menacing Nanny's expression becomes.

I dress swiftly, and part my hair to cover the 'rotten' spot at the side of my scalp over my right ear. Then giving Newton a quick forehead butt and scratch behind his ears, being careful not to get too much of his lovely golden fur upon my jacket, I grab my book of newly written musical compositions to show Master Vuillaume and run to the kitchen and breakfast.

Nanny Tess is waiting, and upon approval of my adulations and sartorial efforts, pours the hot chocolate and puts warm milk and honey on my oat porridge. I eat alone. By order of my parents, the double doors between the little dining area off the kitchen and the rest of our quarters are closed and locked while the housemaids clean and dust the parlor, our bedrooms and our library/classroom. I can hear Tess chivying a lagging maid to 'Hurry, please!'. I seldom have to wait very long after finishing my breakfast before the door is again unlocked, and a smiling Nanny Tess fetches me out.

After breakfast I carefully put on my mask, insuring the silk fabric is smooth across my painfully raw nose and cheek. I have several times suffered infections in these tissues, the most recent the result of a seasonal catarrh. The silk mask can irritate if I am not careful to set it so it does not twist or slide about on my face from normal head movement. Tess has researched and discarded many different materials and designs for my mask, trying to provide a cover that will not irritate and that I will consent to wear. The silk full mask works well for a few days, and then begins to react with the damaged flesh of my nose and cheek.

Manolo, our driver, knocks on the portico door, and Tess holds up my new overcoat...stylishly cut, having _three _capes, large black buttons and a gold silk lining. Manolo escorts us to the carriage and after sending me in with a "Hup you go, Monsieur", sees Tess up and seated, then firmly closes the door. The two lamps set before the wide, well-upholstered bench seat provide the only light, as there are no windows…just blank panels floor to ceiling. Tess gives me the small violin and bids me play, "This is your last hour with your first violin. It has served you well, Erik. Play it again, kindly, for the last time."

I play simple pieces by LeClair, such as I learned when I was first beginning the instrument, as it seems fitting the first music I learned upon my little violin should be the last I play upon it. Nanny Tess pulls a hanky from her reticule and dabs at her eyes. Such unfathomable creatures, women. They cry at the strangest things…

Yet eventually I am rewarded with her sweetest smile, and I stop to grin back, happy to have pleased her…then realize she cannot see as my entire face is hidden. Instantly angry we cannot share this agreeable moment because of the hateful mask, I look down, and finger the strings on the violin…seething with pointless...and therefore unreasonable...irritation.

Nanny's voice is warm. "I saw your smile, Erik. I will always know when you smile, regardless of the mask, because I feel it...here." She lays her hand over her heart, bending to me, in order to coax my head up again. How can I not respond to that? Reassured, I regain my child's pleasure in this moment, and my lips curl up behind the silk.

"Ah, that is better. Now, as said the Bard, 'If music be the food of love, play on!'" Joy and anticipation in the day restored, I do.

It has always been thus, that Tess knows many of my thoughts without my speaking. My hunger, my needs and wishes…she winnowed them from my infant cries, and baby talk and tantrums, and just as now when I am hidden behind the mask and say not one word.

And someday, she assures me, I will walk in the sun without the mask. She says 'There is nothing that love cannot heal, Erik. Remember that, because love will free you of this mask."

I have no idea what she means by this, and have frequently ruminated on the subject. Does she not tell me she loves me as if I were her own child? (A statement I find somewhat confusing and strange considering the shame and repugnance my parents display at the sight of me). Does she doubt the devotion I have for her? And yet, do I not I still wear the mask, except, of course, when she and I are alone in our small corner of my father's massive house, after Madame Turcotte, our cook-housekeeper goes home for the evening? Of course, the sun does not shine then…

Many times have I puzzled over what she means.

Rattling along now on rougher streets, I am playing the compositions I have written, although scored for the piano. I have played most of these on the piano for Nanny before; her eyes are warm, and brim with the approval and affection that makes my strange life a happy one. I finally slip into the newest composition, a lilting _bagatelle +_I have titled "Reflections on Water". The title is a pun, as I composed it while I lay in my evening bath, staring at the lamp's reflection upon the cooling water, pondering water's ability to reflect light.

_My music pleases her, the melody uplifting and her face is again alight with pleasure..._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A cool, gentle hand pushes the hair from my eyes, as a beloved face hovers above.

_"Get up, Erik! You cannot lie here in the dark and wait to die. You are not done, my child! Your life goes on."_

I groan, rubbing at my aching chest. My head feels as if it has been washed out…emptied. I have only the cheerful voice and thoughts of sunlight and tall trees, sweet music and the smell of oat porridge... Rolling painfully to my side I rouse to find I am in absolute blackness, my small lamp having gone out.

I sweep my hand at my side, searching…and hit the side of the box bed, feeling something dry and crusty…yet sticky in spots. Immediately I recall the blood pooled upon the pallet…upon the floor, and slapping my hand to my chest, there is the feel of it, now dried on my shirt, sticking it to my skin beneath.

The swirling maelstrom of returning shock and grief coalesce into a buzzing fist poised to shatter the fragile moment of clarity. Gasping, I shove away from the floor, throwing up my head…to see…

_"Erik, there is no time for this. There is no reason. Get up, you foolish man!"_

Confounded, I stare into stormy grey eyes, surrounded by ivory skin wreathed with the lines of those much given to laughter. We stare at one another for several moments, until she repeats, _"Come now, Erik. You have much to do."_

"I am awake, Nanny Tess." My voice is hoarse, rough, as if dragged over a league of bad road. Clearing my throat, once…twice…I ponder the depth of my present insanity. Nanny Tess stands within reach…as solid as the stone walls around me.

"Are you real, Nanny? Or have I…am I dead?" I gaze at her in dumb wonder…how could I have ever forgotten her?…and marvel at the perfection of my recall.

One faint silver-shot eyebrow elevates, but her voice is low and tender.

"_Dead? Oh, Erik, you have yet to join the __**living**__, my dear! But you were always one for high places and lonely paths." _She leans forward to caress my face; fingers brush my right cheek...my left. Her touch is real, each fingertip separate and wonderfully warm. Just so she has always touched me, never denying one side over another.

I drop my face, ashamed that I might start bawling like a child.

My chin is firmly tipped upward and she is again within a foot of my face, her expression no-nonsense. _"You are not dead, so you may not lie there, like a useless lump, and wish for it! Now, up my dear."_

Closing my eyes, I pull away, rubbing at my burning chest. "What reason do I have to live, Nanny. She is dead…"

_"Hush, Erik, she is no such thing. Your mademoiselle is not dead!" _

Disbelieving, I shove myself to my knees, and turning to the boxbed, stutter, "But…but the blood…here…I left her right here!" I look at the pallets, sticky coagulating blood pooled and spattered across the closest, now turning dull and dark with exposure to the air. Slashes in the linen cover reveal tufts of wool pulled from the pads during the violent attack. And I remember Aislyne as I left her, lying curled up like a kitten, _right there…_

_"That blood is not her's, Erik. Rather, you have made a frightful mess of your last clean shirt with the blood of the man who would have shot her. She shot him first…and is very upset about it too!" _

I have no idea which urge is stronger…to sink back to the floor and weep with relief, or start cursing because _she is not here. _

...I slam my fists into my thighs, as guilty despair fills me. "Protect her! I am to protect her! And yet, I left her…" I stare hard into the face of my long-dead nanny, and ask her, voice harsh and hot with bitter anguish. "How can Erik have thought to ever leave her alone, when she asked him most particularly…**most particularly!**…to never do so again!"

I recall Aislyne's plea to allow her to accompany me on my investigations aboveground; her exact words were, 'Do not leave me here alone, I beg you!'

_But I had, and she __**alone**__ had faced those who pursue us. _

Clutching at my chest, the words a rising wail, my greatest fear assails me, _"She will hate Erik, Nanny Tess…_She will hate Erik now, as he has done exactly what she asked he not do!" I cannot stop the tears this time; I feel my heart begun to shudder in my chest.

Firm arms enfold me, and momentarily startled, I turn to find Nanny Tess beside me…her arms about my shoulders, my head pressed to her thin breast. Was she this short when I was a child?

My Nanny's eyes are shadowed with sorrow, and Erik hates what he has done to the two women who love him. He has failed them both…caused them such sadness, given them such **pain**…

_"There is no love without pain, Erik. You cannot know one without the other." _

Her small hands wrap my face, and suddenly I am overwhelmed with the devotion Teresé Martineau felt for one hideously disfigured little boy.

Tipping my face up to hers, she assures me_, "She will not hate you, my darling boy. She knows you could not stop what happened here. Better you are both alive to find one another again, than to have watched each other die here, ill prepared."_

I must confess, she sees clearer than I could hope to, 'genius' that I am.

Within her tender embrace subtle strength seems to fill the hollow corners and round off broken edges within my tired mind and body, as purpose and self-determination return. Suddenly I am standing, eyes opening to see Tess again at arm's length, the top of her silver head well below my shoulder. Her sustaining affection for this ugly man is undimmed by time…or death.

But contrary as I am, there is one thing I wish to point out to her.

"You say there is no love without pain, Nanny Tess, yet I _never _felt pain because I loved you!"

Tess stands unspeaking for several moments, her face gentle. Reaching up, she lays her hand upon my ruined cheek.

"If I never hurt you Erik…then why have you buried my memory?"

Shocked, I am without reply…and find myself staring into total darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A short one…but, hark! What is that…another chapter I see 'way out there?


	51. Chapter Fifty

**Phantom Night Owl...this chapter is for you. I know what it is like to stay up 'way too late reading because a story won't let you do anything else! I couldn't ask for a bigger compliment! And H4G, Hicdracones...thank you both for your constant and consistent encouragement! I am running short on 'prewritten' scenes, so can't promise the next update will be near as quick as the last five chapters (hey...that was 36K words!). But...never fear...I know where I'm going with all of this.**

**~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~**

**Chapter Fifty**

Back firmly against the bole of a fat gum tree, I sat basking, squint eyed, in the mid-morning sun, feeling inordinately thankful just to be alive. A breeze tickled my cheek, wonderfully warm upon my skin, carrying the scent of cooking food, hot laundry and overheated human bodies. My hunger was assuaged; I had purchased a large skewer of grilled chicken, with pieces of onion and squash and carrot, laid upon hot panbread off a street vendor some time ago. I had eaten every morsel without use of either serviette or a good hand washing first. A large water jar sat between my outstretched legs, half empty.

At this moment I felt...safe. Whole. Untrammeled by worry or care.

Dressed in my brothers' clothes, my hair scraped up beneath a shapeless, felt toque, every visible inch of my face and hands were scraped bloody or begrimed. I felt confident no one would mistake me for an English spinster on the run from foreign madmen and French police. To further muddy the waters I had assumed a grunting, brutish French-Cockney patois if addressed, acting patently disinclined to prolonged discussion. Looking at my black-rimmed, ragged nails and the long, bloody scratch that crossed the back of my greasy hand, I probably made a very appropriate choice.

Perhaps I had gone insane whilst trapped in the endless channel of the aqueduct, for surely there was no way I would have tried this masquerade otherwise. Yet, it had become necessary very soon upon arriving at the commons across from the Vioux Lyon market district. After purchasing my food with a few of the coins I found in my trousers pocket, two young men loitering nearby had given me far too much attention. Whilst slinking across the peninsula I had discovered I had lost my Sheffield somewhere in the miles of aqueduct. The only weapon I possessed was the knife at my right hip.

How fortunate that I'd had older brothers willing to school me on avoiding unwelcome attentions of every stripe. I pulled the _sgian dubh_ from its scabbard, and proceeded to use it liberally during my leisurely meal, admiring the way the light flashed off the inlaid silver in the handle. Just as visible was the lethal shape and sharpness of the blade; I was very careful when taking meat directly off the blade with my mouth. Once finished, the _sgian dubh_ was carefully wiped down upon my disreputable trousers, and then kept visible whilst I carefully cleaned my ragged, bloody nails.

I was ever so glad to see the men moving on, apparently unwilling to face the wicked little knife. It's job done, I slipped it into the scabbard at my hip, and rose to walk off my full belly and locate a public garde'loo. France was very progressive about public toileting…much more so than England, and despite a disgusted look from the next user at my appearance, I was greatly relieved, although two centime poorer.

As the day progressed, more people arrived, strolling in groups. Musicians wandered about, playing accordion, violin, guitar, and sometimes gathering as a group to play, 's'il vous plaît' cups at their feet.

Toward late afternoon the 'bohemians' arrived, taking over the concrete floor at the front of the park, setting up their cheap pasteboard tables and folding chairs to surround the floor completely. Musical instruments were tuned, an Italian lute, Indian sitar, and a beautifully painted mandola being the most unusual. The women were dressed in costumes wicked and outrageous, but colorful and likely comfortable.

Two women joined the gathering musicians, one dressed in scandalously thin Grecian drape with flowers wreathed about her head, carrying a lovely violin. Her companion was handsomely attired in tight bottle green silk breeches and tailcoat, gold-cloth waistcoat, snowy froth of lace at throat and wrists, her arms about a cello. There was no mistaking either for anything but female.

They were received by the heretofore all-male musicians with kisses and good-natured teasing, both obviously well known and accepted. An attentive young man opened their wooden folding chairs, whereupon they sat to tune their instruments, chatting with fellow musicians and passing acquaintances. I was, for just a second, envious of their carefree existence, free to dress and express themselves without even the slightest nod to convention.

It was not until the gentleman with the accordion arrived that the musicians settled, and after an animated discussion concerning musical selection, and the communal nodding of heads upon agreement thereon, launched into the first of their novel renditions of the standards. Soon the concrete square was full of couples spinning to the waltz and mazurka, polonaise and Spanish zarzuela.

Easels appeared at the edges of the crowd as the artistic worked at their craft, smearing paint and pulling pencil and charcoal across pristine canvas or fine paper to capture the colors and movement. Poets and writers, pedagogues and preachers, men and women who appeared very rich...or very poor, gathered to dance, or clap to the music, ogle the women...

These people were no different from the political, religious and sexual misfits who were all the crack in London in Soho and Chelsea Square when I lived there.

I watched the dancing, listened to the music, and kept a wary eye to anyone who moved too close. I was exhausted; I had given up the idea of finding a quiet place to nap. As more people congregated on the commons, the rowdy '_sleeveen_' lurked at the edges, ready to take advantage of the drunk or inattentive. I had not seen the two men who had shown such interest in me earlier, but did not delude myself in thinking I could totally relax.

There too were the gentlemen in conservative attire, unmistakably French plainclothes policemen, who wandered the square constantly. So far I had not rated above a cursory scan.

I was invisible.

Of course, it said something for the crowd that filled the commons that I could be so, here among them, dressed in clothes that were scuffed and torn, muddy, bloody from my many wounds, and smelling strongly of kerosene oil and earth.

My entire body was one continuous bruise. I had been hit in the head by stone chips flying back from gunfire. I did not discover this until I encountered the sticky, matted hair, and coagulated blood covering my right ear and jaw, and left cheek, many hours later.

Upon reaching the end of the corridor down which I had escaped Hashim and his friends, I had panicked, resorting to pressing my hands upon the embossed designs that covered the otherwise smooth stone barrier. Next thing I knew, I had fallen into a large, deep, muddy hole, a trapdoor simply materializing in the floor beneath my feet. The mud broke my fall…for which I was thankful...but had exacted a terrible toll upon my hips and elbows as they took the brunt of the fall.

I had blisters and burns on the fingers of my right hand from the several attempts needed to light a kerosene lantern with damp safety matches. The lantern was found by way of falling upon it whist wobbling about in total darkness, trying to comprehend what annex of Infernos I had subsequently entered after falling into and climbing out of the muddy hole.

The lantern was metal, sans glass covers, fortunately, and did not break from my poor frame falling upon it. I had sworn at it a great deal, even upon realizing it was…Praise God!…a lantern full of kerosene oil.

I suppose it had its revenge upon my ungrateful person by refusing to wick up until the fourth match tried was but a ghost of a flame licking avidly at my fingers. It also developed a tendency to become extremely hot after being lit for more than a few minutes.

Once I had successfully lit the lantern, careful exploration revealed I had landed in an old aqueduct, (an extrapolation from Erik's notations) faced with clay tiles and thick stone. When standing, my head made painfully solid contact with the ceiling as it appeared to be 5 feet and a varying few inches, and less than 4 feet wide. I could stand only if I bent over in a most uncomfortable fashion. The lower walls were smoothly coated with a thick, abrasive limestone buildup from the water that had, no time recently, flowed through it. The channel went in only one direction as I found the opposite direction dead-ended within a few yards into a wall that looked suspiciously recent to my eyes.

I never found the aperture from which I had arrived; I did find the muddy hole, and the ceiling overhead was rough, unbroken stone. No matter, I was not going to stand about and await the next person to fall through. I set off into the aqueduct, eager to leave all things underground far behind, anticipating a quick jog through to open night sky and sweet freedom.

Hours later I was to remember such thoughts with numb despair.

Because the lamp became a hazard to carry when lit, I snuffed it when I was actually moving. I therefore nearly knocked myself out when I walked into a large stone projecting down through the ceiling. As I had already tripped and fallen upon hands and knees several times from encountering such obstructions from the sides into my path, this broke the monotony.

The farther I traveled through the aqueduct, the more often I encountered (painfully) places where the ceiling or sides were caving in, which did nothing to bolster my failing optimism.

Walking bent to allow for the ten inches I apparently had on the original designer was torture. I took the precaution of keeping one arm curved about my head, and the other holding the lantern forward before my knees as a bumper. I cannot say I was thus saved from further knocks and scratches. There were times when I would just catch myself actually going to sleep as I crept forth; there were also a few when I did not catch myself quite soon enough, hence the dozens of cuts and scrapes on my hands, elbows, face and knees.

The aqueduct was bone dry, the muddy hole I had initially fallen into being the only place I saw any sign of moisture, despite the sound of water being frequently heard in the walls. Within hours, thirst became a constant companion, accompanied by the vast hollow feel in my gut. Thoughts of fat, juicy orange slices become a maddening specter at the back of my throat.

Although it is impossible to be accurate, I estimated I spent over 19 hours creeping through the channel, thirsty, hungry, exhausted and cold to my bones. I had napped...it never felt as if I had actually slept...several times when I could not safely take another step. I dreamt of beds, food, flowing water. I dreamt of Erik, calling my name, his hands reaching into the dark. I wept, hope both flagged and flogged by such dreams.

Finally I ran into a stone wall…quite literally. Lighting the lamp for what would be the very last time, I sat for several minutes, lost in bleak apathy, my belief in the eventual end to this ordeal fading. Staring at the massive stone-and-mortar barricade, I was reminded of too many other such barricades in my life: unexpected, impenetrable, and final.

I gave up. S'truth I did. I felt as if I had been a lifetime crawling about in the dark only to come to this…the end. There was no way I was crawling back, as I had lost the will to go another foot. Defeated, I sat on the floor, too drained and dehydrated to cry. I set the lit lantern some distance behind me, and lay down, accepting death.

After the passage of minutes or hours (I cannot say which) it felt foolish to remain lying in the gravel and dirt of the channel floor whilst still feeling very much alive. I stood…and gave the largest stone in the center of the barrier one ugly tempered kick...

...And had to throw myself backward when it, and several other sizeable stones shifted and fell into the small space I had just vacated. Once dust and stone had settled, I moved back to the barrier and inspected the damage. It was disheartening to note the result was a deep crater in the thick wall, not a hole. I pushed cautiously at the center, and it disintegrated outward, taking a head-sized rock with it. This was immediately followed by an inrush of fresh, greenery-scented air.

The kerosene lamp immediately died, the flame having grown smaller and weaker in the past hour. I froze, my antipathy for utter blackness having grown substantially in the last double-score of hours. Frantically pushing my face closer to the inlet of fresh air, I was thunderstruck, eyes watering with delirious joy at the sight of…stars! Quickly testing the remaining stones surrounding the breach, I cautiously stuck my head at the opening, to see a half-circular field of millions of bright, blessed stars! Whether fading in a predawn sky or appearing in late evening I could not tell, but still sparkling reassurance I had reached the end of my ordeal, if I could but get past the thick barrier of rocks and mortar.

Frantically, I began an attack upon the thick barricade using fallen rocks as battering rams, pounding upon stones above and below the crater to loosen them and bring them down, with mixed success. I had obviously kicked loose the 'soft spot'; those remaining were in no hurry to relent. Ultimately enough gave way under my barrage to create an opening I could slip through. I had several large rocks land on my toes, and one caught my chin when I did not move back fast enough, but these were minor hurts, bearable as long as nothing broke and something large and heavy no longer barred my escape.

Many of the outer stones fell out…and the accompanying din was unnerving. When I first put my head out to ascertain what was beyond the barrier, there was a framed circle of sky upward…and pitch black below. By the time I could pull myself through the hole, grasping the solid, stacked rock wall above me, the growing light revealed a well...filled with trash, broken wood and rusted, twisted metal, apparently bone dry. I had broken into a dry well that was now a trash midden. What appeared to be a ship's mast leaned against the wall, beside where I climbed, the wood ragged and splintered along its entire length. The thought of having to grab it should the rock wall prove weak or loose was daunting, but better that than to fall on the jagged metal and broken wooden posts below.

"Get on with it, Butler." I pulled my backside through the barrier, clinging to the side of the well, very thankful it was roughly laid, thereby presenting easily found hand and toeholds. The climb out was not all that far, but I was trembling with the physical stress nonetheless. I climbed into the pre-sunrise, light enough to discern I was in the backyard of a rough-looking alehouse. It must not have been currently open to business, as nothing stirred in the vicinity. About the neighborhood birds twittered and called, not yet ready to leave their night roosts, and a rooster crowed repeatedly, reminding me again of why I hated chickens. Just as clear in the air was the sound of ships' bells ringing the time...5 bells, or 6:30. Apparently I was within yards of the docks along the Saône.

Exhausted from the climb, I found a small whisky barrel on end, sitting under the trees that surrounded the alehouse yard. While considering what I should do next, I gingerly assessed state of my hair and face. I made an assumption of how I looked, and was resistant to appearing in public as a walking murder victim. How inevitable I would suffer an attack of vanity _now_.

Putting my hands up to my head, I investigated the mess at the right side over my temple, where I had been hit by a ricochet of rock snapped from the hypogeum wall by a bullet. Scalp wounds bleed easily and copiously; the hair upon that side was stiff and sticky, hanging down my back, or stuck to my jacket and the skin before my ear. I gingerly tried unsticking it from my face and clothing to pull it back into a queue. My fussing reopened the wound, caused pain and cursing, yet did nothing to improve my appearance. Of course, you could also say I had not impacted it overmuch.

Dame Providence again pressed fickle blessings upon me, as I happened to look up while crawling to the center of the overgrown rank of trees that marked the boundaries of the ale house yard. A ragged, weathered bit of cloth hanging forgotten from a tree branch proved to be a toque, a type of shapeless watch cap popular in France by the wildly patriotic or those of the criminal class. A vigorous shaking and inspection found it vermin free and fairly clean, although this particular specimen tended to rip if pulled down on one's head too vigorously, a lesson I needed learn but once. After an additional few moments spent spitting upon my sleeves and wiping at my face, neck, and ear, and a thorough shaking and scrubbing at my clothes, I was able to envision my appearance sufficiently improved to safely rejoin society. I did decide to keep my head down, however.

This, then...the commons across from the old market area of Vioux Lyon ...was where I 'landed', hoping I would see Erik communing with other secretive men, or walking about with a violin. I had languished the entire day here, waiting for what came next.

Which appeared to be...nothing.

The musicians were beginning to wander away; first the French horn, then the Italian mandola, both of which were played by rather conservative types anyway. Next to go were the flutist, and the viola player. The turban-wearing Indian sitar player was looking about as if considering his options, and several others looked undecided also. The wholesale desertion of his orchestra did not sit well with the gentleman with the accordion, who became loudly impolite to those who chose to go home to their supper instead of playing the evening away. There was laughter among the audience; obviously this was part of the performance.

Shadows grew long across the commons and the crowd thinned.

After the third long set, more musicians rose to stow away instruments and make their farewells. I walked the perimeter of the floor, trying to keep awake and aware, vigilant for faces friendly or not. I would soon need to give up and seek what lodgings I could, using a bit of the French currency I had stuffed deep within my coat's hidden pockets. The problem would be accessing it covertly; the garde'loo was out of the question now the crowd had thinned and traffic in that direction was nonexistent. I had not been thinking too well, after all…

Upon yet another circle about the area, two familiar faces stepped into view...one of the men immediately moving to my left, the other stepping in front of me. Alarm snapped me from my sleepwalking daze; turning so I could keep both in view, I stepped back against a table, knocking chessmen and small drink glasses willy-nilly, much to the displeasure loudly expressed by the well-lubricated occupants.

The man on my left then did something ridiculous: grinning, he stuck out his arms, as if inviting me to come get a hug. The other man was moving into my right, grabbing for my arm, no doubt worried about the knife at my hip. Reacting on pure fear and instinct, I turned to the man on the left...his arms still ludicrously held out as if herding an unruly cow…and using the flat of my hands shoved hard upon his undefended chest, sending him careening into a large number of well-dressed partiers seated immediately behind. I felt the other man's hands grab at my sleeve and shoulder, he cursing volubly in French. I whirled upon him, snarling gutturally in Gaelic, which seemed to surprise him enough I was able to jerk away. I dived into the remaining musicians and their entourage, keeping my head down, slipping between round bellies, musical instruments and tall backs, pushing when necessary. Strident reproaches against the pursuer whom I had shoved were echoed by those whom I jostled in my retreat from my attackers.

I saw daylight, so to speak, nearing the opposite side of the dance floor and turned to check on my pursuers, only to be yanked to a violent stop by a hand at the neck of my coat. My chin was now in forcible contact with a formidable set of sharp knuckles atop the fist holding my collar.

Hauled upright from the sneaking crouch I had assumed to make myself less visible, I stared astonished into the infuriated face of the Grecian violinist.

"Why are you _sneaking_ about like a thief, boy? How many pockets have these _dirty_ hands emptied! Ugh!" Although she spoke in French, a general waspish regard as she scanned my person made no secret of what she thought of the scrawny, filthy flotsam she had nabbed. Her accent and manner were that of outraged British superiority, and her French slow and less than fluent...perfectly understandable to me.

Staring with fascinated revulsion at my gruesome hair, its sticky, plastered state noticeable even stuffed up into a cap, I was taken aback at the fierce intensity of that examination; I was several inches taller, yet I was now up on my toes at the end of her fist.

The woman opened her mouth to deliver an additional set down…blinked and steely blue eyes narrowed and fastened upon mine, full of suspicion.

Her eyes never leaving mine, my captor spoke loudly, in English, "Nell, we are done here. Gentlemen, I thank you for yet another pleasant evening." I was allowed to fully regain terra firma, yet she kept my coat collar within her fist, and was, in fact, cranking me down to her height. I reached up to drag her hand away, and heard someone say behind me, "_Mademoiselle, me permettent à ce détritus de prendre."_

I twisted frantically within the constriction of my coat collar, still held tightly in the woman's fist, and found my two pursuers standing, hats in hand, at a short distance away, but certainly far too close for me. Stepping forward, one...he of the big grin...clapped his hand upon my shoulder, his fingers digging tightly for a good hold. The other addressed himself to the Grecian harpy whose eyes never left my face.

We all jumped when she began screeching in butchered French, "What? What will you do to our Thomas, you ill-bred criminal! Unhand him or I will scream for Inspector Darrieux! Help! Help me!"

Several other men immediately moved toward us, and I felt the hand on my shoulder drop as Monsieur Big Grin's partner began making conciliatory noises, his hands waving about in rapid denial. My new rescuer released my collar and shook her fists at my attackers, and voice throbbing with ersatz terror, shouted, "They threatened us! Where is Inspector Darrieux? Somebody find him! He needs to arrest these villains!"

The two villains, however, threw off restraint, and took to their heels. Watching them slip through the shadows under the trees, I told myself it was my turn to run…but was glued to the spot, my feet leaden. I turned to my rescuer, wherein she dropped her hand and began firmly shaking my arm, speaking to me as if I were simple.

"Thomas, our chairs and instruments _if you please_. Here, let Wooten place the chairs for you, then take my violin. Just so. Here is the cello…_remember_...hug about the middle, not the neck. Nell, do _not_ forget the parasol." An obliging gentleman folded the wooden chairs and slipped them over my arm onto my left shoulder. I was handed a violin case on my left, and the cello on my right. Then, burrowing a hand into each of my elbows, the two women towed me along, without a word said between them.

Aware my attackers were likely watching…perhaps even following, I could not break away without leaving myself open to them again, yet I was without a clue as to why these women had included themselves in my problem. And where exactly were they taking me? It made no sense!

As we walked the path through the commons, my new champion kept the farce in play, saying archly, "Now Thomas...you _must_ learn to stay close to us when we are at the park. You are a _fool_, indeed! You attract riffraff as a dog _fleas!_ Nell! We _must_ talk to the French police concerning the criminals who trouble the evening concerts!"

"Nell", nodding her head, patted my hand presently clasping the violin case. I kept my head down.

Once we reached the pedestrian walk that ran beside the Rue de Republic, both women moved a stride ahead, to link arms whilst they chatted of music, musicians, and other events. Having pulled me from the clutches of my pursuers neither seemed to give me another thought once we had left the commons.

For the moment I was willing to shuffle along behind them, playing the fool 'Thomas', certain I had no other choice. Although far too tired to consider it 'curiosity' I could make certain assumptions about the two women who had decided, for whatever reason, to help me.

Catching their names from the farewells at the Commons, I gathered the Grecian-draped woman was 'Olivia'. Her demeanor that of a dame-school education, a silver-spoon blue-blood, doubtless her sire sat in the House of Lords. I remembered too many of the male version coming to my father's London stables seeking 'prime cattle' to pull their flimsy curricles, reeking of 'seigniory and Oxford, to look down their noses at my father, while lusting for the superlative horses he bred and trained.

Nell was quiet, kind, and despite her fashion sense, deferred to her partner.

Both were probably British citizens, and despite their dress, both obviously 'gently-bred'.

Olivia's golden brown curls falling unbound past her white shoulders was perhaps a bit young for a woman of her maturity...I guessed her to be not terribly younger than I. Her choice of attire was anything but 'proper', outlining legs, rear, and full, uncorseted breasts, and exposing nearly entire her shoulders and arms with the occasional clear view of her legs to the knee while she walked.

'Nell' I belatedly realized was Olivia's sister; their facial structure was identical. She was dressed near as scandalously as her sibling, although showing no actual flesh. Her breeches molded her body from waist to hose, and the matching coat looked painted on, without a wrinkle. The high froth of lace at neck and wrists, and tall collar points against her cheeks looked most uncomfortable. Her hair was but a cap of dark ringlets, cropped in a style that was all the rage with the demimonde of Paris. It was quite attractive…I had admired the look on other women before…but taken with her style of dress, it made me…uncomfortable.

In actuality, both looked silly, but I kept that observation to myself. I was not in a position to be making such judgments, now was I?

I walked behind them feeling lost and just a tad resentful; after a quarter-hour the chairs dug into my shoulder horribly, and I was afraid I would soon drop the cello. It was a beautifully cello, and I most certainly did not wish to do so, but my hands were becoming cramped and my shoulders an agony. I cleared my throat, doing so as gruffly as possible, and stopped walking.

Both women turned to look at me. I set the cello peg upon the pavement, and rolled my shoulder, adjusted the chairs…a clearly pained look upon my face.

"_What_…do you need help?" Olivia's expression was arch, faintly outraged… surely the servant class did NOT protest their lot!

"S'il vous plaît," I growled. Nell looked amused and started towards me; Olivia snorted most ungraciously, and grabbed her sister's arm, stopping her. She then walked back and relieved me of the violin.

"There…surely you are _man_ enough to handle that, _Thomas_!" Sniffing, she turned and tugged Nell back into a walk.

I wondered if having saved me and named me, that I was now and forevermore, 'Thomas'. Sighing, I shifted the chairs and cello to opposite sides, and set out after them, praying for patience and strength to see them home. Then I would figure out what I should do…

At last we turned a corner, heading down a lane of large residences set on relatively narrow plots of land, most appearing to be in somewhat shabby repair. The women eventually stopped at a rusty gate before a tall, second empire-style residence, complete with mansard roof and paired columns supporting a round portico entrance. The sound of a piano being played badly drifted from a window. Nell pushed the gate open, and held it as I shuffled through with my awkward armful. Olivia came through last, closing the gate and fiddling there for some few moments.

Nell pulled me about, saying, "This is Grantham House. This is where we live." She gently removed the cello from my arm, patting me upon the arm. Turning to her sister, she pulled the violin case from her, and said, "Olivia, do _**not**_ be mean."

Nell walked to the door, which immediately opened, a footman relieving her of both instruments at her entrance. There was a glimpse of butler and marble walls before the glossy doors shut.

Now was the time to leave, I told myself. Following Olivia up to the wide entrance, I relieved my shoulder of the chairs, leaning them gently against the closest pillar, and turned to my rescuer. I dipped my head, preparatory to making an elaborate bow…

"And how long do you think to pull off this _charade,_ Miss Butler? Do you _realize_ how close you came to being just another unknown corpse floating down the Saône?"

Stunned I froze mid-bow. Returning upright to look down at the decidedly incensed face of Olivia, I shook my head. "I'm only trying to keep ahead of…those who mean me harm."

"Or in jail? You do realize _La Sûreté Nationale_ are now involved in an intense manhunt…or woman-hunt…for _you_? You are being accused of _capitol murder_!"

Numbly, I nodded.

"_**Then why are you still here in Lyon?**_" Her ire was increasing by the second, and her volume with it. I eyed her carefully; she seemed ready to take swing at me…she had her fists clenched tightly.

"Miss…ah…Olivia, I thank you for removing me from a very ugly situation. But…I beg your pardon, I do not owe you an explanation." My mother's training rose unbidden, and I curtsied, feeling foolish at the same time. I turned, heading for the gate…

"You are waiting for the _man_…the de'Chagny's uncle, are you not? Well, you _waste_ your time. He is gone, left Lyon, well on his way to the south coast and Italy." She surveyed my person again, then drawled, "Do you look this way _intentionally_? Or have you had some grievous _misadventure_? I cannot _imagine _you would wish anyone to recognize you…" her hand made an encompassing sweep, "…thus."

She oozed English superiority. I waited for the inevitable smirk to appear…

No, I would not allow her to push me. "You are mistaken. Monsieur Bouchard is certainly **not** traveling to the south of France." I hoped my sudden doubt make no appearance in my voice. "I will find him. And the original idea was that _nobody _recognize me." I sighed deeply, and looked the woman hard in the eyes. "Yes, I have had a…difficult…time. I am, in fact, exhausted, dirty, bruised and bloody. I have spent the last…two days avoiding those who wish to either imprison or k…kill me…" Tears and bitterness closed my throat.

Gritting my teeth, I looked upward, forcing my emotions deep. After a moment I looked again at the supercilious woman before me. "I have no patience with your fine sensibilities, Olivia."

This time I bowed deeply, and turned away. I made it to the gate...

"Do not be so _pathetically _noble, Miss Butler. You are waiting for a man who has used you and doubtless moved on. You would do better to stay here, with me, while we get you sorted out and safely back home."

I laughed without any real amusement and kept working at the gate. It appeared to be…padlocked.

"My full name is Olivia St. James de Nassau, Countess of Grantham. My husband is the Earl of Grantham, James de Nassau."

My frank assessment of her present costume and expression of disbelief were grossly overplayed. "Then I most humbly request _**My Lady**_ unlock...this...dammed...gate, s'il vous plait!" I rattled it angrily, and turned to glare at my tormentor. Olivia crossed her arms, and shook her head.

"There is no way your sister would allow me to _live_ if I were to let you outside that gate in your present state, Miss Butler. Beyvin has been worried sick since your disappearance from the Hotel Corbusier."

At the mention of Beyvin, I gave up fumbling at the gate, and turned to stare at the woman, whose expression had changed from one of stiff intolerance to that of reserved compassion. THAT I could not take. I felt sudden, unaccountable tears running down my face.

"H...How do you know Beyvin?"

"Why she and Van Cliffe are frequent guests here, and our entourage' during racing season would _not_ be the same without them. Lady Van Cliffe is counted among my _dearest friends_, Miss Butler."

Perhaps it was the lack of solid sleep. Maybe it was the madness of being trapped in an underground channel for an entire day. Then again, it might have been the shock of finding the world as I once knew it still connected to the one I inhabited **now. **Beyvin...whom I hadn't seen since...

Olivia de Naussau continued and though I heard every word, it seemed to fade in and out...in and out...

"Please accept this offer of respite, and let me contact Beyvin. She and Van Cliffe are at the British Embassy this evening, dining with Lord Lyons, the British Ambassador..._very_ likely trying to extricate you from this mess you have landed in. Meanwhile we will tend your hurts, and provide at least _one_ night's safe rest here at Grantham House. You shan't find it outside that gate."

Weak and sick, I sat down, right in the middle of the flagged pavement, and wrapped my hands about my poor, battered face, my heart breaking even as relief swept over me. I wasn't weeping, exactly...perhaps I was grieving the loss of my dream of love, even as I was welcoming rescue.

Somehow I did not think I could have both.

~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~

Reviews Always Welcome!


	52. Chapter Fifty One

**Chapter Fifty One**

Likely because of my filthy state, I was turned over to the ministrations of Nell's 'valet', Henri. A fellow Brit, she was a vigorously built young woman with a pretty face, gentle hands, and an assessing attitude that quickly made me very self-conscious.

Allowing her to coax the pitiful coat off of my shoulders, I then reached up to remove the woolen cap…and found the thrice-cursed thing glued to my hair…painfully so at the site of the scalp wound. Despite Henri's silent offer of assistance, I stubbornly worked at the cap, my fingers proving to be less than nimble. Finally I burst into tears, feeling clumsy and frustrated, clasping my arms about my chest to keep from foolishly jerking the cap off my head.

Henri's soft hand squeezed one of mine. "Now miss, please allow me t' help." Her voice held the slightest Scots burr, an unexpected comfort. Grateful, I acquiesced, sniffing dolefully into my sleeve. I was firmly directed to a lovely padded bench that Henri quickly covered with a linen towel before my grimy backside could besmirch the elegant upholstery.

Henri began the delicate task of removing the wool cap, her fingers doing quickly what mine could not. Once the cap was free, she hissed audibly as she pulled stiff and stinking hair from the matted knot atop my head. "Ooooh, Miss, we'll need t' call the doctor t' see to this."

My hand was firmly smacked when I attempted to check by touch. Chastened, I nonetheless growled, "Heavens, it is just a scratch from a rock. I think I will live..."

"Noooo, this is no wee scratch, Miss. There is a great bloody runnel cut through from here..." Henri lightly placed one finger upon a particularly sore spot at the front of my temple, "...t' here." Her other finger rested just above and even to my ear. After a moment she spoke, her voice faint, "I do believe I'm looking at your naked skull bone!"

Henri turned away to drop the cap into a silk-ruffled waste can, while I felt my head become far too light... My naked skull?

I felt the far-away pulse of an oncoming headache.

"Let's get you out of these clothes and soaking in a nice warm bath, shall we?" I sat and allowed Henri to remove my boots, then stood to strip off shirt and pants. Standing in my knickers and the thin cotton undershirt, I covered my scrawny chest with my arms and said, "I would prefer to continue…ah..." I tried to warm the hint with a smile, but managed to move my lips and not much more.

"I understand, Miss." Handing me a light wrap, Henri smiled, saying, "Just you sit down and I'll make sure the bath is filled and the heat on."

Once she cleared the door, I grabbed my coat, and emptied its secret pockets of currency, small tools, and those documents and paraphernalia I had considered most necessary whilst avoiding capture by mad, murdering Persians. Tearing out a panel of the coat's lining, I wrapped my loose treasures along with my sheathed knife into a bundle, placing this in a bottom drawer beneath a stack of folded towels in the large dressing table before me.

Greatly relieved, I patted the pockets on the trousers, removing the few loose coins and placing them upon the dresser, and folded trousers and shirt neatly, setting them beside my boots. I had just straightened up when Henri opened the door to the bath, her eyes instantly finding the folded clothing and mangled coat. "These are for the burn pile, miss?"

"No! Oh, please, no..." I placed one hand protectively upon the coat. "This has...great sentimental value to me. And the trousers and shirt are fine...just dirty. A good wash will serve, after I've treated the...bloodstains, and all. Just...just leave this. I will take care of them."

"Hmmm..." Henri gave me a level look, saying, "Very well then...a good washing they will get. Allow me to take care of it." Running one hand along the weave of the coat's material, she pursed her lips, saying, "It's a fine wool tweed. I will spot clean it…that and a good brushup should bring it 'round." Finding the torn lining, she added, "…And a stitch here and there."

She shot another sharp look to me, saying, "Here now, you are not thinking to take off again dressed..." she waved a hand..."like so, are you? It's not right, a lady dressed like that. Bad enough we have Lady Eleanor out in public looking scandalous, and no mistaking her for naught else but a woman!"

Recalling how Eleanor's coat and breeches hugged her shapely form, the comparison was laughable. "I am not so blessed as Lady Eleanor, Henri. I look quite unremarkable dressed as a man."

Eyeing my firmly banded chest and narrow hips, Henrie grunted and patted my arm, saying, "Well, perhaps you need t' put on a pound or two, miss. Feed your figure, so t' speak. And speaking of which, I've brought you a cup of brothy, and toast. Just t' tide you over until dinner. I have it on a tray by the tub, through that door. You go in and soak and I'll be back to wash your hair." Jerking her chin towards the paneled door to the bath, Henri left me to my ablutions.

I shed knickers, undershirt, and chest band, and gratefully eased myself into the large, hammered-bronze tub. The back was slanted, and the tub deep and long enough I could slide down until the water lapped my collarbones, and extend my legs comfortably. The water was very warm, and satin smooth, quickly imparting ease to those parts busted, bruised, cut, scraped, and generally painful.

Using the cake of snow white soap and washcloth provided, I lathered and rinsed my face, ears and associated parts, then worked my way down until every part had been thoroughly scrubbed pink.

Gingerly investigating the mess atop my head, I quickly confirmed no matter how clean my fingers looked, I did not wish to touch it. The wound seemed...huge; no wonder I was all over blood. But now my hair was beginning to relax as the heated steam softened the crusty mess, and I was not keen on that ending up in my bath water. Pushing it all atop my head, I tied it up with a hand towel that was draped over a rail set by the tub.

Content with my state of cleanliness, I relaxed against the tub's back, my neck resting upon the nicely contoured edge. I was utterly exhausted. The warmth and ease tugged me towards slumber.

My gut, however, set to complaining loudly, wildly aroused by the scent of food emanating from the covered tray at my elbow.

The mug held a spicy chicken soup that sent beads of perspiration rolling down my face; the toasted bread was buttered generously and kept warm upon a heated ceramic plate. I finished both far too quickly.

Replete for the moment, I laid my head back against the tub, willing to entertain the idea of a half-doze now that my belly would not be quite so distracting. Within a few moments, the steam from the bath had filled the room, dimming the light...or was it fatigue? Whichever…I surrendered, allowing my eyes to close, the bone-deep heaviness to overtake the tension in neck and temples...easing the nascent pounding behind my temples...

Drowsing, my mind wandered, flashes of recent events winking past in kaleidoscopic fashion, as if viewed in high speed eye blinks: the aqueduct by lantern light...Erik's eyes...the sparks of bullets ricocheting off stone...the enraged Persian's visage...sunlight through leaves...the oil lamp's explosion…the smell of food...Erik's lips...the new moon...a star-filled night sky…the moon?...

_...the moon a milky spill against the backdrop of a million dusty stars, a woman kneels, holding the shivering body of a young boy. His forehead is pressed against her breast as he sobs, "Take it away, Tess! Please...I do not want to remember…take it away..." The child's body rocks with unrestrained emotion, his grief a terrible, tangible force, filling my eyes with empathetic tears. I bite my lips to keep from crying out..._

_The woman leans back from the boy, resting her hands upon his thin shoulders. The boy's brown hands cover his cheeks and his nails dig into the skin at his temples. He howls wordlessly… _

_Her expression is beatific...and frightening. I feel the fierce, protective love she holds for this beautiful black-haired child whose tanned body is...naked. Even in the depths of my drifting reverie, I feel my eyebrows lift..._

_The woman's form seems brighter than the moon's albedo, the radiance burnishing the child's body, to reflect softly upon the flawless dark skin of the his arms and chest, the smooth double arch of his thighs._

_Lifting the boy's hands from his face, she leans forward to look into his eyes; her lips move as she frames both tearful cheeks within her palms, raising his face to hers, her thumbs stroking the tender flesh. Pale green meets luminous storm-grey...and through his tears the boy speaks, voice broken, and strangely mature, deep with despair. "You were right, Tess. God help me, you were right!"_

_His upper lip, so full and sweetly upswept, captures my attention, and I am gripped with such longing, such…need. I clench my thighs and blush in shame. He is a child…a child! And yet he is not. It is his voice…_

A groan jolted me awake. The gaslights burned painfully bright to my eyes, and I found myself gripping the sides of the tub with fingers already painful from a thousand cuts and scrapes.

I heard Henri's voice calling, "Are you well, Miss? I would wash your hair now if that be agreeable with you."

"Yes, of course." Realizing I was whispering, I responded again, wincing at the sound of my own voice. "Yes! Please."

Closing my eyes against the harsh gaslight, I heard solid footsteps and the sound of sloshing water. Henri's voice was but a low murmur, "That will be all Peg. Be sure t' set another bucket of hot at the door, and stay close. Lisle, here is where I need the large basin." I felt hands at the towel in my hair, and a flash of pain as it was released, my hair falling behind and outside the tub.

"This will do lovely, Miss. Just stay you there, and we'll have this done in a trice."

Henri's manner was soothing; she used gentle humor in directing Lisle, and despite the growing demon-ache behind my temples, it made me smile. I kept my eyes closed, listening, and then fell oblivious, besides the occasional twinge when the wound upon my head was pulled upon.

The strange dream drew me…distanced me from the headache, although I could not imagine what it had meant, nor who the boy and woman were supposed to be. I soon realized the low susurration that again tickled my ear was that of moving water, a river nearby, a sound that became progressively louder as…

_...I feel the shale rock again beneath my feet, still faintly warm from the sun, and…see the boy. He is now alone.  
_

_He still kneels upon the hard ground, but is erect from knee to shoulder, his head thrown back as he stares into the depthless night, arms rigidly down, his hands curled into fists. _

_This, though, is no boy, the figure now muscled and mature, heavy thoracic and pelvic bones strongly visible, his maleness well defined. His skin appears dark and sleekly oiled, accenting the planes of pectorals and abdominals, biceps and quadriceps. I see his face in profile, the sharp cheekbone and jaw line, and straight, elegant nose catching the silver light._

_Eyes flashing pale green as if lit from within, he turns to face me, his expression fierce and darkly intent. I gasp and step back, ashamed to have been caught spying in such fashion even as I realize… _**I am not really there**_. _

_Raggedly cut black hair is spiked about his head, as if pulled by restless hands, leaving uncovered the pockmarked scalp along his right temple. The bands of gnarled scar tissue and distorted bone of his right cheek also stand out in high relief, lit by the auroral glow of the crescent new moon and a million stars above._

~~~~OoO~~~~~

I was helped from the bath by Henri and Lisle, having become nauseous and light-headed from the burgeoning pain within my head. Wrapped in a massive towel, I was all but carried between them to a room papered in an eye-blinking shade of blue moire. An indecently thin silk sheath was dropped over my head, and I was seated before a massive dressing table to have my hair combed out. Although a cup of hot tea sat waiting, I was too ill to think of drinking it.

The Greek chorus within had become a rising squall, overwhelming all rational thought; though I listed weakly upon the bench, I stoutly resisted Henri's steadying arm. The towel wrapped about my hair slipped off, and the sudden sensation of icy wet hair upon my neck and naked back sent the headache flashing into pure agony.

Wildly fending off Henri's attempts to calm me, I scuttled from the bench to the bed, where I hysterically refused to allow my hair to be combed. Henri left the room, leaving two young housemaids to keep two pairs of wary eyes upon the mad woman shivering and weeping upon the bed. Oblivious, I wished only to suspend my tortured head from the side, not unlike a ripe onion from the pantry rafters.

Eventually Olivia appeared in the room dressed in an unremarkably styled gown, bringing with her a young man whom she introduced as a physician. Having demanded he wash his hands before so much as touching me, I thereafter became the perfect patient.

His was a most unconventional examination. Totally ignoring the furrow in my scalp, he began by prodding the muscles of my back and neck, manipulating my jaw, inspecting my teeth, ears and eyes using a candle, and an instrument consisting of a tube and mirror. He thoroughly surveyed my skull, pushing and sliding his fingers over various areas. It was not until he began to inspect the 'scratch' upon my temple I registered any pain from his touch, as the shrieking chorale within my head had, up to that point, drowned all other sensation from his exam.

Hot water and clean towels were fetched as he removed jars of salves and powders from his case. I was dosed with a powder, mixed with strong, cool tea, per his instructions. He then persuaded me to lie flat upon my stomach on the bed, and began moving his hands up and down my spine, pressing heavily in places. Finally he pulled me to a sitting position, grasped the back of my head and chin, and delivered a fierce jerk to the left and right. The relief was absolute and immediate.

I swooned like an overheated debutante.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I awoke to the soft, rapid-fire click of knitting needles, and knew instantly who occupied the chair beside my bed. Filtered light from the window lit her lovely face and elegant form as she sat, hands flashing in constant motion, the chair turned to face the bed. Thankfully, my sensitive eyes were shielded from the light by a long drape of velvet. Blue, I am sure.

"Beyvin, it is you?" My throat felt as if I had swallowed sand. I became aware there was a bandage wrapped about my head, as a bit of it was dangling past my right eye. There was a fat pad of gauze above my right temple, and I could tell without investigation I had stitches under it.

My eldest sister immediately shot from the chair, knitting tossed haphazard to the floor, to fall upon the bed.

"Aislyne…oh, Aislyne…I have been…frantic!" Grasping my hands, Beyvin's voice shook with emotion…something I was truthfully not ready for.

"Beyvin, please do not overset yourself. There is no reason…" I squinted, finding my ears were as sensitive as my eyes.

"Aislyne…you have been _missing_, ever since…ever since those murdered men were found. We had _no idea_ if you had been taken…if they had been murdered protecting you! It has been _terrible_…"

Gently, I pulled my hands from her grip, and pushed myself to a sitting position. "Well, I was not murdered, despite my present appearance. I was, in fact, the person who discovered them, and reported the…murders to the authorities." A twinge of painful recall…I firmly squashed my emotions on that subject.

"Oh, my dear Aislyne, how _distressed_ you must have been… To have found them…_dead_…" Sobbing, Beyvin threw herself upon me. I put my arms about her and patted her back, murmuring meaningless reassurance while my sister burned through her overwrought emotions, and I found handle upon mine.

Beyvin had always been like this. She did it not for attention, or as an affectation; she honestly felt things strongly, and worried excessively. Unfortunately, once her emotions were engaged, there was more drama than a ten-penny novel.

I waited patiently while she exhausted the initial nervous overload of several days' tension and worry over her troublesome sister. Eventually she sat up, upon the edge of the bed. Pulling a large handkerchief from her sleeve, she dabbed at eyes and face, firmly announcing, "Now I am a mess."

I again pushed myself up, freed of her weight across my prostrate form. "I'm sorry I cannot join in your hysterics, but I would only resurrect one hellish headache if I did." I wiped tears…hers…from my neck and face with the bedsheet and then leaned forward to hug her. "You are a silly puss, Bey."

"Oh, pooh." Beyvin shot me a watery grin, saying, "You merely do not wish to sully your youthful good looks. Now, I need breakfast, having slept here in this room the night through to insure you did not expire." Rising from the bed, Beyvin pulled her lacy blouse into order.

Surprised, I looked hard at my silly sister, "No, why would you do such a thing? I was surely not that ill? I merely had the headache…"

I was again set upon, my face pressed to my sister's well-corseted bosom as she wailed, "Aislyne, the doctor was _most concerned_ for you! The..the vast wound in your _head_, the bruises and abrasions that seem to _cover_ your body. We _did not know_ if you had suffered some serious _internal injury_! Why…you appeared to have been knocked about _most _viciously!"

Shoved away to arms' length, Beyvin's fiercely narrowed eyes inspected my bruised arms and face… "I did not _know _if I should call a priest for _last rites_… _**I thought you were dying!**_"

I was again squashed against my sister's heaving chest. Resigned, I simply waited until I was again allowed to fall back against my pillows, wincing as muscles complained of the past two days' activities. Beyvin's hanky swept her cheeks, and she returned to fussing over me, pulling the blankets about, clucking over every bruise and scab. Laughing, I said, 'You sound like a hen, Bey."

"Your poor knees. You will undoubtedly have scars." She clucked several more times. "Breakfast…are you at all interested in something light and soothing. I have no doubt your tummy is feeling delicate after all this."

I snorted, asserting, "No, not delicate at all. I would like fried eggs…at least two, and a rasher of bacon…not over done, mind you. And sliced fruit. A few scones would be nice with butter…too bad the butter here is so anemic. And coffee…not tea. Nice rich coffee with a pot of heavy cream and honey to dose it with."

Beyvin's eyes went wide during my gustatory recitation, her jaw sagging. "You are ribbing me, Aislyne. You can eat like that?" Her eyes traversed my narrow frame beneath the blankets. "I should be round as a barrel!"

I laughed, saying, "Well, generally I have toast and tea. But I have been hungry for _days_. Tea and toast will not do, Bey. I want food."

I was promptly kissed upon the forehead. "And you shall have it, _m'eudail. _If I must make it myself, you shall. And _then_ you _will_ tell me how you landed in such a dreadful state, yes?"

The message of her final words was unmistakable…she would know exactly what had happened.

~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~

I did enjoy our breakfast, my mood lifted remarkably by a full belly and strong, creamy coffee. Beyvin and I were able to catch up on family news: of the stud farm in Ireland, of her children, of our brothers and sisters, and finally the reason she and Van Cliffe were in France. Which was, naturally, the horseracing.

However, the reason she was in Lyon was, of course, to visit with her good friend, Olivia de Nassau. Who told her of the mess one Aislyne Butler had landed in, asking her, "And do you not have a sister by that name?"

Now pale with just the memory of that moment, Beyvin told me what she had been able to accomplish during the evening spent with Lord Lyon, the British Ambassador. Which was not really worth the telling, as until I was actually found, he could do nothing.

I gave her no more than general details concerning my employment, and the current situation. Not that she was so foolish as to take the whole without questions. There were many, and I lied like a horse trader to make the entire palatable for her tender peace of mind. Erik stayed the de'Chagny uncle, Jerrod Bouchard, and I kept him as elderly as I thought believable…which was 'very'. I may have played with the events leading to my losing custody of my patient; however I did emphasize to her I would prefer she remain mum about my whereabouts, her relationship to me, and so on. I especially requested she not tell Van Cliffe or indeed, anyone that I was at Grantham House.

Gripping her hand I leaned forward off my stacked pillows. "This entire trip was to remain…private…and I cannot express to you how very important it remain so, Bey. I beg you..._please. It is a matter of life and death!_"

Her response was slightly frantic. "This all seems _very_ foolish to me, Ails! _Whatever_ is it you are involved in…surely we will _need_ Van Cliffe to get you out!"

It took me a second to swallow the unkind remark that nearly crossed my lips. Instead I calmly assured my frantic sister, "No, we do not need Van Cliffe, and I cannot tell you more than I have. Please trust me, Bey, and just…do as I ask. And keep Van Cliffe out of it."

She must have picked the next words…carefully unspoken…right out of my thoughts.

"No, Aislyne! He does not dislike you…not really. He does not care to see me _worry_, and you have _always_ caused me to do _too much_ of that!"

She gave me a quick kiss, and rose to recall the maid to remove our breakfast dishes. After watching with critical eye as the maid deftly cleared, she then moved to check her appearance at the dressing table. Leaned forward to look at some invisible blemish upon her flawless cheek, Beyvin stuck out her lip at me in the mirror. "I _do_ wish you two could settle your differences. He is my _husband_, Aislyne; you are my _dearest_ sister. _Why_ must it be so difficult?" She moved to the chair beside my bed, and carefully subsided into the deep cushions.

Thinking of Van Cliffe angered me enough I could push myself from the pillows without groaning, saying instead, "I have never minded that he was your husband, Bey. It is that he does not like we are related at all! How many times has he decried my choice of profession, stating clearly he does not want you or the children to be 'associated' with a ward nurse in a mental hospital?" Snorting, I added, "As if I had a choice all those years ago, with a family to support! Perhaps you should point this out to your husband…and remind him I had to become a ward nurse long before he became the Van Cliffe!" His open contempt of me rankled, and I had decided long ago I would cease being passive about it.

Beyvin ducked her head, foolishly enjoying the fact Van Cliffe set me about so strongly. She had frequently claimed it was the denial of my own helpless attraction to the man that made it so hard for me to stand him.

I knew better than to argue **that**, as it always led to her tears.

It was at this point that Beyvin again went off on my current sorry condition and situation; I allowed her to get on with it...always the best approach with my sister. Soon enough she wadded her damp handkerchief into a knot, slammed it into the table, and jumping up from her chair, declared herself.

"I am taking you _home_, back to _Ireland_…to Ballinhassig. No one can touch you there! Van Cliffe will accompany us, _naturally_. We will leave this _very day_, Aislyne...all those from whom you are hiding need _never know_...!"

Calmly I shook my head. "No, Beyvin. I will not go. And you will not tell Van Cliffe I am here. Sit down, Bey…you are turning positively ruddy."

Normally the idea of appearing the least bit 'distempered' would have her seeking a cool damp cloth and a place to recline. This time she cast me a dark look, but continued, passion growing for the idea as she animadverted upon disguises, and fake travel papers.

"We need to find someone who rubs shoulders with the criminal class here in Lyon. A new identify, and you can walk out of here without question!"

I allowed her several minutes to come to her senses, and then gently disengaged her fierce grasp upon my poor, tortured hand.

"No. I will not allow you to haul me back to Ireland. I…I am not leaving France, Beyvin. Not yet…" At this point I was at a loss. I could not talk about Erik with her…or anyone. And indeed, I presently knew nothing of where he was…if he was even still alive…

Beyvin was not taking my refusal well. 'You cannot stay here…they are going to hang you for murder!"

The devil inside me chose to remind her they did not 'hang' criminals in France; they guillotined them.

Breathing in little hiccups of anger, Bey whispered, "Why are you doing this? Who is it that demands so much of you? You have been beaten, your head... Why, Henrie thinks you have been shot! Olivia told me you were wearing men's clothing, and there were men were chasing you at the park! If she had not recognized you, I do not wish to think what would have been your fate! Aislyne...this is no game you can play in the dark...we are no longer young girls in London. Here it is rougher...people are so..._cruel_..."

Silently cursing Olivia de Nassau, Countess of Grantham, I reached for my sister's hand. "Hush, Beyvin. I am playing no game…and heaven knows, we both are well acquainted with cruelty. France is no worse than England, and need I remind you of how it was in Ireland?"

Beyvin's eyebrows bunched, and her face reflecting her hurt and irritation at having been thwarted in yet another attempt to 'save' Aislyne.

Poor misguided Aislyne. _Strange, twisted Aislyne…_

"Hrumph! France is a _nightmare_. Do you see how they have chosen to persecute one _helpless_ woman despite ample evidence to the contrary?"

No, really. Now I was 'helpless'? I opened my mouth to protest this but was stopped by the words, 'ample evidence…'

Beyvin grabbed my shoulder, shaking firmly. "Why? Again, I ask you...why do you refuse to allow me to take you from here! It need not be home…!"

I gently disengaged her fierce grasp upon my bruised arm, and patted the hand gently. "It is my turn for questions, Beyvin."

"Pooh. _Obviously_ I know nothing!" Sniffing, she turned her head.

"You say there is 'ample evidence to the contrary.' May I know what this is…what is being said?"

I was given a piercing inspection by my twice-thwarted sister. "You are a trial, Aislyne. I despair of saving you from yourself." This loving encomium eliciting no effect, she sighed, and sought her reticule from its place at her belt. Sifting through the mélange of items stuffed into this inadequate appurtenance, she pulled forth a card, and slipped it onto the table, face down beneath her index finger.

"This man is obviously trying to steer the police into a more reasonable direction in their investigations. We…I met with him briefly…in a somewhat odd fashion just last evening at the British Embassy. He was also hoping to visit with Lord Lyon concerning _your_ situation, and in fact arrived in a hack just as we pulled to the kerb. He _knew_ I was your sister, immediately! Van Cliffe was _quite_ unhappy." Bey's fine brows gathered as she admitted, "Van Cliffe was rude, actually…and I was a bit put out by it. In fact, I _demanded_ he step away and allow me to hear what this gentleman had to say." Beyvin reluctantly released her finger from the card.

I flipped the card…and felt my face grow cold. 'Nadir Kahn, Investigator' the card read. A post box number was below, with an 'inquire at' address, both of which were in Paris. He had, however, penned the name 'Hotel Le Corbusier' and his room number at the bottom. I was interested to see he was just across the hall from our suite.

"Oh, Ails…do you _know _this man?" Beyvin's eyes were huge with fear. "Have I compromised your _safety_? Is this gentleman not really trying to help you?"

Crumpling the card, and I shoved it beneath my pillows and grasped Beyvin's nearest hand. "What could you have told him? Did you know…had the countess…Olivia told you I was here?"

"No…no…I received a message from her at the hotel…after I left the Embassy, asking me to come for the evening. Van Cliffe was already gone, having left me at the Embassy to go clubbing with friends. I came here as soon as I could, thinking…well…thinking Olivia had some personal crisis, a new admirer or…" Bey turned a bit pink and continued. "I left a note for Van Cliffe to tell him I would be at Olivia's. He considers Olivia a bit fast, but encourages our connection. So…I frequently come here when we come to France."

I was interested to see the damp handkerchief was now being rent end to end. Beyvin turned away, which gave me time to control my tendency to grimace nastily at Van Cliffe's behavior. The little toad-eating mushroom! _'Encourages our connection_'; I had no doubt. Deserted her at the Embassy, by God! He could have seen her safely home, at the very least!

Pushing such thoughts away, I allowed my sister time to collect her emotions, whilst I reviewed my current situation with growing anxiety. The fact Mister Kahn knew Lady Van Cliffe was my sister worried me…for her sake. If he had followed her, the immediate visit to Grantham House after meeting him at the Embassy could be read to mean…oh, so many things, all of which were troubling.

If Kahn thought I might be at Grantham House, who else would soon be looking for me here? Was I, at this very moment, attracting the murderous Persian to this innocent household?

I closed my eyes. _I needed to see Nadir Kahn immediately. _I had no idea what I could say that would insure the safety of Erik de'Carpentier and my family, however.

Beyvin's eyes were tearful, and I felt badly, as I always did when she was upset. However, I grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "Listen to me!"

Freakishly, she did. Her face was again hot, she nearly panted with overwrought emotion.

"Beyvin, I know Van Cliffe has no idea I am here…if he had, he would have fetched you straight away. _Leave it at that_. _Do not tell him I am here_. Do not admit to _anyone_ I am your sister, that your sister was here in this house…indeed, that you have had any connection whatsoever with me."

Amid my harangue, Beyvn's helplessly soft expression faded and firmed, to become the thin-lipped, hard-eyed older sister who so closely resembled our father. Looking into her face I saw the overlay of my father's furious countenance. I dropped my hands, aware I had been squeezing rather fiercely, my fingers hard.

She rubbed her arms, no doubt bruised from my rough grasp. Shooting a resentful look my way, she hissed, "You need not speak to me as if I were a simpleton, Aislyne!"

"Beyvin, please…I am sorry…" I felt sick for the damage I did to the only family I would likely ever have…

Waving aside my apology, Beyvin leaned into my face, her eyes narrowed with resentment, "And I feel it only fair you provide me with the reason for this drama and intrigue! You are acting in such manner as I have never seen before! Perhaps Van Cliffe is correct, and being day in and day out among the mentally afflicted has affected you thus…"

I felt my face go hot, then cold. Swallowing all pride, I chewed every word, so to speak, to keep them soft...loving. "I ask this of you to protect _you_. To protect the Countess and Lady Grantham. Yes, and even Van Cliffe! It is very important no one know anything regarding my whereabouts, or your relationship to me. And no, I cannot tell you…anything."

She sighed, giving in. I knew my sister would do as I asked insofar as not telling Van Cliffe; she was never eager to make her worthless husband feel uncomfortable, even at the expense of her children and friends.

But we were obviously not going to kiss and make up.

Pleading a return of my headache, I requested Beyvin ask Henri for a suitable powder or potion. I gave…and was given a most dutiful hug, but my sister's expression was sour when she left, closing the door with perhaps a bit more emphasis than necessary.

No matter. Better she be angry enough to leave me to my fate, then to give her spouse the opportunity to tip off the _Sûreté Nationale_ as to my whereabouts.


	53. Chapter Fifty Two

**Chapter Fifty Two**

Nadir Kahn concentrated upon his hands, crosshatched and mapped with the scars of a long-ago ordeal, ignoring the two restless young men who also sat at the café table across from him. For the first time in two days Nadir felt the muscles in his shoulders and back begin to relax, the anxiety and regret of another situation gone sideways subsiding. Anton Villar had already reported the one salient fact Nadir most wanted to hear.

_Aislyne Butler was safe._

She was not on the streets, or being held by the assassin who pursued Erik. She had, in fact, found the safest place to be in a city where many hunted her. And Nadir Kahn knew exactly where she was, If Villar's initial statement could be trusted. Nadir's instincts said it could.

Naturally, Nadir Kahn had no intention of sharing this information; not with his employer the Minister, or Captain Heizel, and most particularly not with these _yozzles_.

He was not surprised to hear Mademoiselle Butler had so cleverly outsmarted these two. It was the manner in which she was able to do so that puzzled and astonished him. The woman was indeed blessed by God!

Looking at the self-important Villar, he asked, "And you are sure Mademoiselle Butler was alone the entire day? No one approached her, no chance for slipped messages or clandestine contact with these musicians...anyone?"

Villar shook his head rapidly, yet responded with one "Oui, Monsieur Kahn." At his superior's motion to do so, Villar elaborated, saying, "We watched the...ah...subject the entire day, Marcel and me. The only time she was out of our sight was when she went to the facilities at the edge of the park. The attendant motioned her to the urinals at the back, naturally...but the mademoiselle pointed to the closed stall. We could plainly see it was empty before she entered, and there was no entry from the sides or back, as I checked it out thoroughly. I believe…"

Kahn stopped any further personal observations with a look. He instead turned to Marcel Lamand, asking, "And the two women...they were, indeed, bona fide musicians?"

Lamand nodded crisply, saying,..."Yes, Monsieur Kahn. They both played beautifully, particularly the cello player. The cello player..." Marcel fanned his hand upon his chest.." was _meraviglioso_."

Villar snorted derisively at his partner's use of Italian hyperbole.

"Hmmm." If Kahn was amused at Lamand's open appreciation for the woman who played the cello, he would not show it. Eleanor Smythe-Walsham reportedly had little use for men.

"The Mademoiselle fled directly through the middle of the standing musicians to these two women, after pushing...you?... into a group of seated civilians, yes? And, Monsieur Villar, she then slipped past you...hmmm?

Villar looked as if he were sucking on a lemon. Nadir found it hard not to smile. "Did either of you see what happened when she reached the woman musician? Was there a discussion? Did the Mademoiselle have time to request their aid? Offer them money? Tell them who she was?"

Villar shook his head, exclaiming, "No Monsieur Kahn! I was but a few yards from her...I would have known...seen and heard...if she would have done so! Instead, I see this scantily dressed woman jump from her chair and grab the mademoiselle...like so!" Villar stood and reached for Lamand's shirt collar, jerking him out of his chair. "She held her by the neck...out, like this...as if she were a dead cat!" Villar's theatrical performance now included holding his partner up on his toes, easily done as Villar was nearly a half a foot taller than the diminutive Lamand.

The 'dead cat' squeaked a protest.

Kahn frowned, motioning both men to return to their chairs. "We are in a public place, Monsieurs!"

Lamand's face was flushed, his eyes rolling when Villar abruptly dropped his hand from his collar, and both dropped to their seats. Leaning across the table, Villar continued in a lower tone. "The woman...the musician, I mean...seemed unsure of what to do with the mademoiselle, glaring at her with a great deal of irritation. And that is when Marcel spoke up, asking if we could relieve her of the...ah..."

Lamand, sensing his friend's hesitation in referring to the mademoiselle as 'garbage', stepped in, saying, "I said, 'May we remove this unfortunate from your view...'. Lamand shot a smug look at his partner.

Villar continued smoothly. "Exactly. But the woman holding our…holding the mademoiselle immediately set up a horrible fuss, screaming for the plainclothes _flics_ who hang about most evenings. She accused us of 'threatening' her servant...she actually called the mademoiselle 'Thomas', as if she were a man! Suddenly we were surrounded by the other musicians, who did not seem inclined to listen to reason!"

Lamand interjected, "We felt it unwise to detain the mademoiselle at that time."

Both men looked at Nadir carefully, unsure of his response to such craven behavior.

Kahn drummed his fingers upon the table, snapping his gaze from one to the other. "Monsieurs...anything else?"

Both men indicated 'no'.

Kahn leaned back into the chair, thinking of the rather wide trail the Mademoiselle had cut, and how best to cover it. "How did you come to think this person to be Mademoiselle Butler? Dressed in men's clothing, taller than both of you, and armed with a knife. This does not sound to me as if this…person …could have appeared to be a woman at all!"

Lamand immediately held up his hand from the tabletop, saying quietly, 'It was I who decided she was…who she was."

Kahn was disappointed...but quietly asked Lamand, "And how did you come to that conclusion?"

Lamand, intimidated by Kahn's stiff expression, licked his lips, but faced his superior squarely. "It was her coat, sir. It is…was Donegal tweed, done in a muted bronze houndstooth. You don't find Donegal tweed worn anywhere but Ireland, or maybe Scotland. It's not popular enough to export."

Kahn was surprised... "Go on."

Lamand shrugged and said, "I saw the coat before I paid any attention to the…er…person wearing it. She…had just returned from purchasing a meal at one of the outdoor grills…and I saw the fabric...the coat, and recognized it for what it was despite its terrible state of disrepair. I…my father was a tailor. Fitted 'off-the-peg' during the day…adjusting coat sleeves and such. In the evenings he worked for himself, making bespoke suits. He was very good, and always busy." Lamand became faintly pink at the admission of his humble antecedents. He sighed then, saying, "My father was custom tailoring for a Scots gentleman, an expat' who had made a great deal of money here in France. But the man insisted on 'good wool tweed' for his clothing, and my father sent away for it. We had bolts of it laying about for months. I was my father's unpaid assistant, and I learned a great deal about the stuff."

Kahn let his honest admiration show, although his first ploy at derailing further interest in Aislyne Butler was thoroughly scuttled. "So you based your decision on the fabric of the coat?"

Lamand sighed. "It was the way she walked, Monsieur. In fact, every move she made…it just said '_female_' to me. She is very graceful, a most striking woman, despite the clothing, and grime and...blood on her face." Lamand sat back at the sudden intensity of Kahn's expression.

After a moment Kahn snapped, "Please continue."

Lamand nodded and continued. "She would forget and straighten her back, or lock her hands before her, just as any gently-raised woman will do when they are...ah...doing nothing. She kept her face hidden for the most part, but you could not mistake her for anything but a woman if you saw her bone structure, her expressions…" Lamand shrugged again.

Kahn looked at Villar, asking, "And you? Did you notice any of this?"

Lamand laughed at Villar's dark expression. Villar admitted he had not.

"I see." Kahn steepled his fingers, looking from man to man. Superior directive it would have to be.

"We are not, in fact, looking for Mademoiselle Butler, so we will not be pursuing this line of investigation. It is interesting that she is still here, of course, but obvious she is no longer with Jerrod Bouchard. I will give this information to the police and they can do with it what they wish. We will not be doing their work for them. Do you understand me?"

Nadir waited for either man to offer a dispute, but neither did.

"I am assigning you, Monsieur Lamand, to the rail station on the peninsula, where your discerning eye will do the most good in recognizing Monsieur Bouchard…whom we _are _pursuing…if he should try to leave Lyon via rail. Monsieur Villar, you will be his partner, but will answer fully to Lamand. Please write up your reports and submit them to me at your earliest convenience."

When neither appeared ready to leave, Nadir stood, bid both a good day and headed out of the café. Walking away, he could not contain the spring to his walk.

Both young men looked taken aback and more than a bit annoyed. Kahn had left them with the check.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoOoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_**How could I have forgotten**__** Teresé Martineau**__**?**_ Why did I excise from memory the first love of my life, the woman who was _everything_ to one hideous little boy?

And how wondrous the returning memory! To feel again the strength and comfort I found in her custody, a bulwark against the heartless deeds of my own parents. Nanny Tess was all that was good in my life for nearly eight years.

My hands busy with needle and thread, _I allow the memories to come..._

**Teresé Martineau****cared for me from the very hour of my ignoble birth, my parents unable to bear the sight of their afflicted son.** I wonder that they did not find the usual drink-addled crone to 'foster' me, hidden in the back streets and stews of Paris, for a few centimes a month until I expired from 'natural causes'. My father must have possessed a conscience; I know my mother did not.

My father was convinced I was damaged, cognitively as well as physically. He spoke about me, never to me. The few times he visited the suite where I lived with Nanny Tess, he merely inquired if Tess needed anything 'for the boy.' One memorable day she requested paper, pencils, and suitable books for a young child…for me at 3 years of age. My father laughed, saying, 'That monster will never be able to read or write. He cannot even speak!"

Of course, I never spoke when he was anywhere near, terrified of the man and his power over Tess. What if I say the wrong thing? My mother would frequently threaten to send Tess away, but it was Charles August de Carpentier who could actually do so. Even at two years of age I understood the hierarchy of my world.

Tess bought paper and pencils to appease my need to draw the things I saw, both in the world around me…and within my mind. My infantile sketches were pinned to curtains and arrayed about our apartment as if each were a work of art. Tess saved those I considered good enough in a large book she kept under her bed. And naturally, she taught me my letters and numbers; I can remember her hand on mine, helping me to spell my name, my age, the date and place…

'_**Erik August de'Carpentier, **__**années 4, **__**14 Mai 1843 - Paris, France'**_

Nanny Tess read to me from the time I was an infant; by age four I read the daily paper and understood a great deal of what I read. Having bought a subscription to the local lending library, we would walk there at least once a week, I wearing my hated mask. Pouring over the shelves of books, Tess helped me choose my weekly allowance of three books, prevaricating if necessary so as to introduce me to subjects I might not have found interesting otherwise. I was allowed one story book, but those on ancient history, the sciences, the classical tales of adventure and mythologies came home with us as well. I loved to read, and would have done so nonstop had she not directed my interests in other ways as well.

The basic primers, with their simple illustrations of happy children in a loving parental home, gave me some idea of how my life compared with that of other children, so I was aware very early of the differences.

I was fascinated with cats, and my childhood pet was a cat named Newton, in honor of the great scientist. Newton was a refugee from the unkind streets, having suffered the loss of most of his tail and half an ear in his early years. He was not a young cat when he joined us in our small corner of my father's house. Newton soon became an icon to his noble name, suffering from a surfeit of gravity, being well-fed and tending to ride a little low in the belly. He was my second greatest love, fostering my lifelong affinity with God's greatest creations, the animals.

**Of all the gifts****Teresé Martineau**** gave me, the most important was the gift of music!**

My very first memories are of her face bent over mine, soothing a fussy, hungry infant Erik by singing the aria from Handel's 'Xerxes', 'Ombra mai fu.' I was comforted when she sang, and thrived upon goat's milk and opera music.

I learned to sing every aria, every duet she had performed or heard during her 30 years singing with the various Paris opera companies. She taught me the basics of using my vocal instrument, concentrating on the middle register because of my immaturity. She found me an apt student, although an exacting tutor, she still made our lessons the brightest part of every day.

It was she who also introduced me to the pipe organ. She served for many years as the organist for our Catholic church, and twice a week I went with her to where she taught me the rudimentary skills of playing it while she rehearsed new music with the choir

I was given my first violin upon my 3rd birthday…a gift from Master Luthier Jean Baptiste Vuillaume, who was a member of St. Sulpice and had heard me picking my way through a Frescobaldi toccata using both the primary manual and the center footboards of the church organ. He had walked up to the organ and asked me who I was, wherein I had told him as I hid my masked face, "I am Teresé Martineau's ugly little boy." The man had frowned so fiercely I had become truly frightened, but he said, "You may have an unfortunate face, but you have the soul and heart of a gifted musician. What instrument besides this do you play, Master Martineau?"

After a long discussion about music and birthdays, he shook my hand firmly. Within the week, Tess took me to Monsieur Vuillaume's shop, where he gave me two short lessons on my new one-quarter-sized violin, and a hand-scribed book of scales and practice songs so I might learn the notes and tablature. We visited his shop many times in the following years. I loved the violin, although I had to keep the bow away from Newton, who chewed the horsehair.

A piano appeared in our rooms one day, moved there from the front drawing room when my mother had decided she no longer wanted it. Tess asked for it, and so it was now 'our' piano. I remember her stretching my small hand over the keys, showing me where the notes to our favorite songs were located. From that day the piano was my personal passion. I immediately sought out the notes for every bit of music Tess had taught me, that we had ever sang, first as single notes, then as chords, and finally as complete melodies. I was playing my own compositions on the piano by age 5, something that terrified the servants. Tess allowed me to play as I pleased when my lessons were done, in the time between dinner and bedtime.

My parents initially thought it was Teresé Martineau playing the piano. No one thought to tell them different.

Because of the music, operatic and otherwise, I wished to learn Italian, Spanish and English. Tess knew conversational Italian and was fluent in English and Latin, and taught me. I learned Spanish later, although in circumstances nowhere near as salubrious.

In our short seven years, she gave me what most would consider a complete classical education. I was taught the liberal arts: Latin, logic, and rhetoric, literature, history, and music, as well as mathematics, and the sciences: geometry, astronomy, engineering and physics. I was required to translate from the Latin the poetry of Virgil and Horace into English, and then translate it back into Latin in another grammatical tense. I read Horace, Justinian, Tacitus, Thucydides, and Plato, willingly…and sometimes not. In short, she gave me in our few years what normally required eight years of private school, four years at university, and a Grand Tour. I can only wonder at what she could have achieved with her little demon had she been allowed twice the time by fate.

I suffered from an uncontrollable curiosity that included the 'other house' connected to ours. I had once escaped the garden, and once slipped through the iron gate between my parents' home and mine.

The time I slipped through the gate, I had come upon my older brother, Alexander, who was five and thus two years my senior, and also up to no good. Having outwitted his nurse, he was chasing one of Mother's Prince George spaniels with the intent of riding it like a horse The poor little dog was terrified, pressed into a corner shivering with fear, yipping at Alexander.

My unmasked face had been swollen with an infection…something I fought most of my childhood was infection in the tender and frequently raw tissue upon the right side of my face. Nanny Tess had applied a gooey green poultice to my cheeks and nose and allowed me to go unmasked. I must have appeared properly hideous to Alexander, all over green slime upon one side of my face. The combative expression I assumed at his mistreatment of the little dog sent him into panicked terror; he had immediately begun screaming and liberally soaked the carpet around his baby-shoed feet.

My hasty retreat had not spared me a solid hiding from my nanny, and we again went over the reasons I was not to go through that door. Poor Tess suffered a severe reprimand by my mother, and that alone cooled my ardor for adventure in that direction for several months.

It was, in fact, my mother who finally provided me with the motivation to stay away from the remainder of the house.

Late one afternoon I was able to escape Tess for the few moments it took me to climb the (then) short garden wall and slip into the 'other house' through the French doors into the library. I hid beneath the largest table I had ever seen, fascinated by the array of books that filled the massive room.

A maid found me, although I hid my face innocently behind the 'Oiseaux Illustrés du Monde' I was enjoying. She left me there, much to my continued delight, but fetched my mother. Unnatural woman that she was, Mother pitched a hysterical fit upon finding me hiding in her library. Screaming for Tess, she then attacked my poor Nanny when she ran into the room, white-faced and tearful.

I watched as my mother slapped Tess, not once, but twice, shrieking things I could not understand. Nonetheless, I would not allow my mother to hit her again. Launching myself from beneath the table, I ran between the women and shoved at Mother's legs through her elegant blue silk gown, attempting to push her away from my Tess.

My mother's face registered shock and horror simultaneously. "His mask…where is that…that monster's mask?"

Nanny Tess immediately knelt to pull me into her arms, saying "He wears no mask when he is with me, Madame. He is just a baby…he is no monster!"

Mother leaned down, her face twisted, hissing, "He is a monster, and he will wear a mask! Else you will be dismissed and I will send him to Charenton!" She then glared directly at me, saying, "Get him away…he has no business here, in my house. He is to never come here again**!"**

Striking so quickly there was no chance to avoid it, she deliberately backhanded me in the face, hard enough to break the fragile cartilage that held the shape of my nose to that of near-human. Blood and green goo sprayed everywhere…the carpet, across the skirts of both women's gowns. My shirt was soaked with blood by the time we were safely returned to our quarters.

I never willingly crossed the barrier that stood between our little corner and my father's house again. I finally understood that which I could not before.

**My mother hated me. **

How unhappy my life could have been, yet it had been extraordinarily perfect because of Teresé Martineau. As a boy, I was well aware I was ugly. I knew the way people reacted to the sight of my uncovered face...to the open wounds and gaping holes the constant infection and irritation caused. Yet I found strength and acceptance with my devoted silver-haired Nanny and tubby cat, unaware how quickly life could change...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ruthlessly I chop off my hair, scissoring away the generous length Aislyne left to the front, leaving it all short...less than two inches overall. Dabbing the ink-black liquid over my shorn head, I carefully remove any smears from my skin, as it will block the effect of the skin dye.

Stripping down to the skin, I begin applying the skin dye. Everything must look natural... everything. Resolutely, I apply it to both sides of my face.

The oily skin-darkening concoction is cooling, the rag I will use to apply it already stained dark brown where it is resting half in the pan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One afternoon, Nanny Tess fetched me in from my room to come to our parlor, where I found my mother sitting at the piano. Tess had given me the mask, so I knew we had company. My mother told me to sit down, which I did immediately after I had bowed nicely and inquired as to her health, just as Tess has taught me.

My mother's expression was one of amused derision. 'He has no need of gentlemanly manners, now does he Mademoiselle Martineau? After all, there is no way such a disfigured monster could be more than…a sideshow curiosity."

Tess's expression remained cool, yet I could feel anger radiating from her stiff body. My mother than said, 'I gather he plays the piano well. I suppose it is for the best that he be able to do something, yes Teresé?' And Nanny Tess had smiled grimly, murmuring "Yes, Madam".

My mother stood then and turning to me, said, 'You are fortunate I did not send the piano out with the old furniture to be burned, Erik." I remember feeling such horror for the piano, something that had taken on a personality, become more than a 'thing' in my mind. I actually gasped, and begged her to have mercy for the piano, 'No, please…never do that, Mother. It is a very good piano…I do love the piano!"

And my mother brought her narrow, pinched face closer to mine than she had ever in memory, and for one second I thought she would kiss me. I must have shown something on my face, because she laughed at me, still close. Then she hissed, "Then never give me reason, Erik, to punish you. For I will have your piano broken into a thousand pieces and burn every one in that fireplace, right there!" She turned violently, and pointed to the small firebox that heated the dining room, and she actually laughed into my shocked face.

I remember turning to Nanny Tess and hiding my hideous face in her stomach. Tess was shaking; I watched her hand wrapping itself in the apron fabric at her side, and I thought to myself, 'she is tying her hand down so she will not slap my mother!' And then, 'No, please do not hit Mother, Tess! God knows what she will do to us!'

My mother's vindictiveness had an element of impotent rage to it, fed no doubt by the fact she had, ultimately, so little say in my disposition. I know she wished me dead…gone…that I was an embarrassment, and constant _aide memoire_ that she had given birth to a monster. I was reminded frequently that she found comfort in knowing I was her _second_ son, and Alexander…her beloved firstborn…true heir to my father's estate.

In her mind this was far more than any money or property my father could have bequeathed his firstborn. My grandfather's family was of la noblesse, having been so since Louis IX. Alexander Erik de'Carpentier, Duc de Aiguillon, lost the title that went with the name de'Carpentier when he lost his head to the guillotine during the last years of the Terror. My mother was openly hopeful it would be reinstated, the title restored to my father. My father reportedly could not have cared less.

Then Alexander fell from a tree house he and my father had built in a large oak tree in the estate garden. I was six. Alexander broke his neck and apparently died instantly. My father carried his body into the house, and I heard my mother's screams for hours before we were told what had happened.

My father tore the tree house down, his face hard. I stood and watched from my small corner of the garden. He never spoke to me, did not so much as look at me. But I KNOW he knew I was there…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The skin dye is…unpleasant in feel and odor, yet I continue to rub coat after coat of it into my skin, being careful to do so evenly as possible. It burns the tender flesh of my nose, especially on the right side, and I dare not get any in my eyes, as I have no idea what the affect would be there. I have it rubbed well over every bit of skin, checking each area piecemeal with a silver mirror I 'borrowed' along with many other supplies from a cobbler's shop in the Jewish district. I continue to apply extra coats to my face, arms, legs and other such areas that might conceivably be exposed to the sun. I apply it to my back using a large fleece pad on a long handle…manufactured out of necessity, and I believe it works well. I am not too sure how the scar tissue on my back will take the color. If it is anything like my face, it will take some color…enough to match the general shade of my skin.

It will be enough…it has to be enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Upon my seventh birthday I realized I was now the only child. Since my brother's death, I was left alone by my parents, and happily so, as I had Nanny Tess and Newton, my music and books, and our excursions to the library, to Monsieur Vuillaume's shop and the church. I could not miss my mother, and all the drama and violence her visits brought to my quiet, well-ordered world.

I was always curious about my father, however, as he was an architect, just like his father, and I found the art and science of architecture endlessly fascinating. At that time I envisioned a day when I might talk with him about these subjects, asking intelligent, insightful questions, to show him that I, too, was a son with whom he might find pride. That I was no mindless, uneducable monster.

And then there were rumors my father had left Paris and my mother; a broken man, he had given up everything and went off to work for the colonial government in Algeria. I never heard of him again…

Tess worried, fretting that my mother would do something 'ungodly evil' to me if my father was not here to stop her.

Paris, in 1846, suffered the coldest winter in memory, with snowfall to the rooftrees, and temperatures far below what our crude thermometer could register. New Year's Day, 1847 brought celebration to none but the idle rich, who could afford the wood for the fires, endless oil for the lamps, and the wine and provender for guests. For a great many in Paris the day assured only more misery. Deaths from starvation and exposure to sub-zero temperatures rose to hundreds a day.

Closed into our small apartment, cozy and sheltered from the lethal weather, Tess continued my education in languages, deportment and music. Because of the difficulties I suffered in the cold weather, we did not go out at all. Even Newton chose to join us before the fire instead of checking out the stables for mice seeking shelter from the bitter cold. Although I heard our housekeeper and Tess discussing the troubles outside our doors, I was untouched, content to immerse myself in books and music.

Upon the release of Winter's lethal grip, flooding then swept France. The rains began in late March on the heels of the last snow, and continued through April, driving the rivers of north and central France out of their banks, drowning crops, livestock, and low-lying villages. As one crop after another failed, food became more expensive, jobs more scarce and France tottered upon the brink of economic collapse.

I suppose I was not to notice the lines of strain that grew deeper upon Tess's forehead, or the way she would hug me for no reason. We practiced little economies, mending and turning our daily clothing and only purchasing that which was absolutely necessary. We ate less, although I was never really hungry, and conserved oil and candles by going to bed earlier...the hardest on me as it meant I could not read late into the night.

Tess began to suffer from a shortness to her breathing should we walk too quickly across the street. She sang with me less, insisting she was happier to listen while I played the piano and sang to her.

Twice I found her sitting upon the floor, face ashen with pain she would not identify, and so weak I was hard pressed to help her up. Never a large woman, she now seemed to melt away, her cheeks hollowed with bruised shadows beneath her eyes. Not fully understanding the reality of mortality, I begged her to get well, to rest and save her strength. I soon found myself caring for her in small ways, even as she continued to tutor me in math, geography and voice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sitting naked beneath a quartering moon, I stare at the star field overhead, having come to the conclusion I am a fool. Blindly I have skipped, lighthearted, down a path that in some way I must have KNOWN would turn to razor sharp stones beneath my feet. Now I remember…the gut-wrenching agony of her sudden absence, leaving me alone and ultimately unprepared for the world outside our magic sheltered circle. One moment loved, safe, whole, wreathed in her protection. The next betrayed, sold and caged as if an animal, to be beaten and broken, abused and used in the basest of ways...

My oily brown fingers clutch at my face as tears wash the stars above into bright smears of light. Chest aching with helpless rage, the broken-edged memories cut away at the fragile sanity and humanity once again.

And now I know why..._I know why I chose to forget her..._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Having finished the prescribed practice of violin and piano, I ran to find Tess so I could play my newest composition, a fugue in four voices on the piano for her. I found her lying upon the floor just inside her bedroom, her mouth working soundlessly, her eyes widely dilated as her back arched from the floor, her hands lying useless by her side. I tried to help her, wrapping my arms about her neck and shoulder to pull her up, but without success. Tears rolled across her cheeks to land upon the hard floor, and I realized she knew I was there, knew I was frightened...but was unable to see or talk to me. I needed to fetch help.

Running to the gate that separated our apartment from the rest of the house, I quickly broke the locking bar with a decorative cast iron door stopper and ran through the vast rooms of my parent's house to find my mother. She was in the conservatory, two other ladies with her. Bowing quickly, I calmly told her Nanny Tess had fallen upon the floor and couldn't speak or get back up…that she needed help immediately!

I must have stunned Mother speechless at first, as she and the other two ladies sat, mouths open, staring at my uncovered face. But my mother recovered soon enough, and jumping up from the settee, began screaming for the butler and maids, her clawed hands raking the air inches from my face. Suddenly she slapped me so hard I spun about, tripping and falling to the floor. When I got up and began telling her yet again of Nanny Tess, she grabbed the small wooden footstool near her chair and hit me again, this time knocking me senseless to the floor upon my face.

Mother began crying hysterically. Pushing myself to my feet, I staggered from the room, past the shocked butler, footmen and maids, none of which had been brave enough to step through the open door to where my mother battered her hideous not-quite-secret son.

Frightened, I ran back to the apartment where Tess and I lived; Tess's eyes were open but she was no longer moving. I thought perhaps she was better, resting...and I patted her cheeks and hands, begging her to wake up, to reassure her ugly little boy, but to no avail. Confused with all that had happened, I finally lay beside Tess's body, hugging her until Madame Turcotte came to find us so, many hours later. Lunch and dinner had come and gone and Teresé Martineau had not fetched our meals; Cook became worried and came to check on Teresé, and the strange little boy for whom she cared.

For many days thereafter I was numb, wandering the apartment, in deep shock.

One morning I realized she had left me…vanished. Her things remained, every shawl and lace cap, her handkerchief and library book next to her bedside, and the Wellies and long brown Ulster she favored still hung from the hook by the back door. I, too had been left behind in limbo, now unsure from one day to the next what was to happen to me.

For weeks I lived in the apartment alone. Mrs. Turcotte no longer came in the mornings to make my breakfast, or indeed, at all. There was a new cook, a taciturn woman with long hair on her chin and a rank smell, who now delivered all my meals and generally made sure I was alive and nothing beyond that. I sat at the piano and played until I was exhausted enough to sleep. I read the books Nanny Tess had read to me, and drew pictures of her. I actually drew her on the wall in our sitting room…standing life-sized, wearing her favorite linen dress and Brussels lace shawl. It comforted me just a bit.

It was during this time that Newton disappeared. I realized his fate was most likely decided by my mother…she had complained endlessly at the idea of a cat in the house.

The piano was next to leave; I was directed by Cook to go to my room with my dinner, a novel enough idea that I should have guessed the reason. The sound of several pairs of heavy shoes accompanied the squeak of the piano's rough wheels moving across the parlor floor, almost as if it were calling 'goodbye'.

Increasingly I was ordered to my room at odd hours of the day, so that each of the apartment's rooms could be stripped; all the books, the drafting table next to the window along with my paints and pens, charcoals and colored chalks. Tess's bedroom suffered the same fate, the closet and clothes presses emptied, her bed reduced to the frame leaned against one wall, leaving me nothing to hold when I could no longer hold my fears at bay. Soon even the furniture was gone.

My violin remained because I hid it behind a loose board in the wall of my closet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_"There is no love without pain, Erik. You cannot know one without the other."_

Kneeling in the loose shale beside the river, I beg her spirit to withhold the rest, to close it away! Yet I know she cannot, and I tear at my face in an attempt to derail the memories… "I know you are right, Tess, I know it! Please…please take this away!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I had been told to take a bath, and clean attire had been set out for me to wear by one of the maids. My mother appeared in the apartment, and announced we were to go for an 'outing'. To have my mother appear willing to be seen in public with me was far outside my experience, and I was numb with terror.

After a prolonged carriage ride wherein my mother kept her fan before her face and said not a word to me, we stopped at a large Gypsy camp on the outskirts of town, to which was attached a shabby sideshow attraction of the sort that are still popular even in these enlightened times. I recall being frightened by the appearance of the misshapen unfortunates who were exhibited as freaks, either voluntarily...or not, as evidenced by those who were shackled to trees or caged.

My mother put her hand on my shoulder and viciously ripped the black silk mask from my face. This was the only time I remember her touching me while not screaming. How could I not know what was to follow?

She talked with a man named Javert, who owned the entire sideshow. They spoke in English although it was apparent my mother was not fluent; she had no way of knowing I was. I understood every word of their conversation. I listened with ice filling my heart as she was guaranteed I would surely die within the first year; watched as she accepted a packet of cash notes. I realized that she was, in fact, delivering the killing stroke to her inconvenient monster son.

"Mother, why did you do this?" I wept. "Why did you hate me so?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is morning when I awake, the sunlight on the river casting bobbing lights upon the cave walls of my lair. Wrapped in an old blanket, I am hungry, sick and cold.

A good inspection using the mirror assures me the color looks quite natural, especially on hands, face, neck and ears. Very little else will be uncovered under normal circumstances, although I have insured the skin color is fitting, whatever the situation. I have secured the textiles and the dyed hair cuttings for the facial hair.

Soon I will be ready to go hunting for Hashim. But first I must find Aislyne, and insure she is safe.


	54. Chapter Fifty Three

_Okay...so hate me. I took the summer months off in order to trailride, walk miles in the park, and play with my dogs. Of course, I never stopped writing but will admit to striking off a great deal of it once I got 'serious'. We are nearing the BIG finish, so stay tuned! Reviews are ALWAYS appreciated!_

**Chapter Fifty Three**

Nadir Kahn ordered the thick, black beverage that passed for coffee in the _maqhan_ he frequented whenever he was in Lyon. As the days when he traveled frequently to and through the city had been few in past years, he was surprised to see it had changed little. The tables were perhaps shabbier…the walls dingier. But the clientele were the same; men off the boats from the 'golden East', and docks of the Rhone, speaking the languages of their homelands: Arabic, Persian, Turkish and Hindi, as well as the polyglot trade French.

He sat at a smaller table near the front of the shop, preferring to face the wide entrance, and predictably, two men entered the _maqhan_ soon thereafter, dressed as dockmen. Once served their drinks, they sat at a table near the center of the dim, low-ceilinged room, one opening his _La__Croix_ before his face, the other nursing his sweetened tea and eyeing the other residents of the shop.

Sizing them up immediately as his current 'tail' Nadir closed his eyes, wishing all irritants were as easily dismissed. Captain Heizel made no excuses for having Kahn followed, and in truth, Kahn respected him for his honesty, but was thoroughly unimpressed with the 'seasoned' men Heizel had brought with him from Paris. The two who had followed him here were clumsy...near caricatures only of what 'grey' men should be.

Pulling his battered copy of "Concepts of Criminal Investigation" from his coat pocket, he allowed his focus upon the room and its inhabitants to lapse.

Somewhere between his second and third cup of coffee, several men entered the small café, the first two noisily arguing good-naturedly in Arabic. Kahn scanned them automatically as the new arrivals seated themselves and waited as old Zakariyā, owner of the café, shuffled out to their table to take their orders.

The last man through the door was a dark-skinned Sikh wearing the uniform of the British Punjabi with the turban badge of the 45th Rattray Sikhs at the apex of his dastaar. As if he were not novel enough, he wore the round dark-lensed glasses currently all the rage among the Germans, worn while driving their crude, noisy 'Benz' automobiles through the European countryside, scaring citizens and livestock alike.

Entering on the tail of the raucous tableful, the Sikh was obviously not with them. After politely waiting, he too gave his order in heavily accented French, and with a smile and bow to the elderly proprietor, moved to a table near the entrance, sitting so that his back was to the wall beside it. Opening a local newspaper, he laid it upon the table.

Kahn admired the man's gloriously full beard and mustache…the Sikhs did not remove or trim body hair as one of their articles of faith…and moved his eyes back to his book.

Eventually a thought intruded: did Heizel truly think Kahn incapable of recognizing his two followers for what they were? Or were they sleight of hand…a 'red herring'?

Kahn scanned the _maqhan_ carefully, 'reading' those who sat in corners speaking to no one, of those who were here before him, even the recent arrivals who were presently laughing, stuffing their faces with chapatis, beans and boiled eggs, and gulping cardamon-spiced coffee.

His eyes landed again upon the Sikh, who was enjoying his coffee and samoon, ignoring those around him. He had removed the shaded glasses, having tucked them into his tunic pocket. His body language was unremarkable…but it was odd that the man never raised his eyes to look about him.

Which was interesting, but certainly not germane to the question at hand. Kahn shifted minutely in order to again study the two other men who sat alone at distant tables. No…nothing there.

A fracas at the front of the shop caught his ear, as the elderly owner of the _maqhan_ threw a brass metal basket full of coffee grounds upon the floor, and began belaboring the young man behind the counter in broken French. "The beans are to be changed…as I showed you...to keep it strong. Here! The coffee…it is weak. Who would drink this? Pah!" Throwing his hands up, Zakariyā called to Allah to save him from fools, then grabbing a ragged towel from below the counter, he flailed at the back and shoulders of the cowering young man several times with it.

The table full of roughnecks began hooting and egging the old man on, yelling in French and Arabic. The joke was immediately taken up by other tables in the _maqhan, _resulting in much laughter, the noise level becoming nearly riotous.

Kahn turned away and chuckled quietly, thinking it would be a good time to finish his coffee and go home. The day had been long already, having begun at dawn, and it was long past midday. A nap, perhaps after he had checked on the troublesome Gadreaus across the hall at the hotel…

His eye again fell upon the Sikh, wondering why the man was dressed as a Jemadar of the British Indian Army here in France; he knew the Sikh were fiercely proud of their reputation as warriors, and were highly valued as the backbone of the British Raj. However, it was unusual to see one outside of the Asian continent or British colonies, being a sect that preferred community to solitude.

Quickly moving his eye on, he mentally reviewied what he saw. The man was neatly dressed, his tunic sharply pressed, as were his loose breeches, properly creased along the sides and tucked neatly into his polished boots. A dark leather belt snugged the tunic to the man's lean frame, the wide shoulder strap holding a business-like revolver within a holster. At his right hip the ornately scrolled sheath for his kirpān was slipped behind the wide belt, the smoothly polished hilt of the weapon itself declaring it more deadly than decorative.

Turban tying never having been Kahn's forte, he admired the neat set of the Sikh's dastaar, the navy blue setting off the khaki of his uniform and the man's jet black facial hair. Totally unremarkable.

However…

He felt sure the man was attempting to avoid notice, patently concentrating his attention upon his newspaper, coffee and food. 'And perhaps,' thought Kahn, 'I should leave it at that.' Turning away, he gave the situation at the front his attention again, as the young man behind the counter awkwardly cleaned up the mess made by his enraged 'employer.' Twice the young man glanced up directly at Kahn, the look in his eye assessing.

Yes, it was time to go.

Smiling widely at the two 'dockmen' who had followed him in, he held up his coffee cup in salute, his eyes meeting those of the one watching him _through_ the hole carefully torn within a large, busy advertisement for gentlemen's corsets. The wide-eyed agent immediately dropped the paper. Kahn laughed, and kindly advised him to 'make the hole smaller next time,' in French. The chagrin upon both agents' faces was immediate, followed by the inevitable flush of angry embarrassment.

Kahn debated calling out the young agent behind the counter, yet could not resist irritating their Captain. Moving before he could change his mind, Kahn rose, laid sufficient coin upon the table for his coffee, and moved to the back of the _maqhan _toward the open doorway to the street. On a whim he pulled out the chair across from the Sikh, and sat down. Surprised, the dark skinned Sikh looked up, his expression blank with shock.

Nadir Kahn was unable to keep his jaw from dropping, flummoxed by the sight of pale green eyes surrounded by thick brows and deeply tanned skin. As the Sikh's expression switched to unnatural hot-eyed rage, his teeth flashing from beneath the fearsome mustache, Nadir saw the small flaws in the disguise…unnoticeable unless you absolutely knew what to look for.

Fortunately, quick thinking _was_ Nadir's forte.

Speaking loudly, he said, "I have a favor to ask of you, my good man, and here is fifty francs for your trouble. Keep an eye upon _that_ fellow at the counter for the next five minutes; I am thinking he will leave directly after I do. This is not a wager...either he does or he does not…but whichever, I have paid your for your time and attention!" Overtly Nadir turned and smiled at the swearing young man who now watched from behind the counter. Rising from the chair, Kahn tipped his hat to his exposed shadow, and to the dark-skinned imposter he had embroiled in the prank, and walked out.

'Praise God, please let that clumsy gambit work,' Nadir prayed furiously as he sauntered away from the _maqhan_.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My first impulse is to burst into laughter; the look on the Daroga's face is that singular.

My second is to throw myself across the table, hands outstretched for Kahn's neck. I have not yet forgotten, nor forgiven his confession at the barred door of my cell in the Rois.

Under the circumstances, I do neither. He is attempting to shake a 'shadow' off his back…and I am confident I am the reason he is being followed. There is nothing to be done but get over our mutual shock and back out of the gaffe as gracefully as possible.

Kahn does so by dropping that 50-franc note on my table, thereby drawing all attention to it…instead of me. He marches out of the café with two 'dockmen' close upon his heels, albeit no longer attempting the least bit of discretion.

I assume a suitably nonplussed expression and keep my face down, thereby hiding the distinctive color of my eyes as I scan the room quickly. A light-eyed Sikh is not unheard of, but still of note. As I have never heard of a suitable disguise for one's eye color, the dark glasses appropriately worn and keeping one's face in shadow is the best I can do.

The full beard and mustache do well to cover the other most notable feature upon my face, my right cheek well obscured by the adhered hair cover. I have fashioned bushy, full brows on both sides as well, and have covered the right side of my nose with fine leather and makeup. My right eye is still askew…nothing I can do for it.

One of the men at the table to my right points to the 50-franc note, speaking in heavily accented French. "Easiest money you ever made, I wager." He points to the cursing young man at the front of the cafe, now engaged in low-voiced argument with his employer. It is apparent the boy is undecided if he should leave, yet his eyes constantly turn to the door, no doubt worrying he has already lost his man.

Many in the room are watching him. Others are looking at the 50-franc note with avarice or envy.

The man to my right again speaks to me. "Perhaps you should allow me to do the watching." He leans slightly toward the money, a wide smile upon his face. The others at his table laugh and abuse him good naturedly for his greed.

I smile just as widely while setting the heavy, awkward shaded glasses upon my face, and answer him in rough French, saying, "I can see him quite well now, my friend." Picking up the bill, I fold it and stuff it in my breast pocket. "But I thank you most humbly for your thoughtfulness." I incline my head, playing my part to the hilt.

The others at his table hoot and guffaw just as loudly as he; I am reassured he is only jesting and I need not worry he might slit my throat for the money. I will be mindful when I leave, however, as there are others watching who might.

I intend to hang on to it; I am most thankful for the money.

The subject of discussion jerks off his apron, and telling his employer to 'stuff the wages' rushes from the cafe. There is some laughter among the rough men in the room, but interest wanes once the money and the boy have both disappeared. I finish my breakfast and newspaper, pay my shot to the scowling shop owner who must now work behind his own counter, and stride out into the morning sunshine.

Keeping my eyes down, I head towards the foreign market to find a moneychanger.

~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I spent the summer months of '57 and '58 working with Charles Beulé, sent by my mentor Buontalenti as a way of fostering my curiosity in classical archeology. The first year in Campania, I worked with several other students brushing through twenty centuries of rock, clay and coprolitic residue from the midden pits and potshard dumps of the Herculaneum, a Roman city located on the south slope of Mount Vesuvius. It was dirty, demeaning work, fit only for the students who might otherwise destroy more valuable archeological treasure through ignorance, inattention, or lack of delicacy.

There I became acquainted with a fellow student by name of Angadi Malo Singh, a Sikh from the Punjab region of India. I believe he originally approached me because I was the only other turban-wearing student there, although his was the traditional dastaar of the believers of the Universal Creator, an attractively folded turban worn close to the head. Mine was a simple pagri wrapped atop a facially obscuring scarf, worn only to spare my fellow students and instructors the disturbing sight of my face. I refused to wear a mask in the relentless heat and dust.

I resisted all friendly overtures, yet found my reclusive attitude patently ignored by the young Sikh, whose initial gambit was to insure I consumed three meals a day and drank enough water. At first unsure of what this genial young man found so compelling about my company, I eventually realized he thought me to be the _least __objectionable_ of possible companions available. Like Angadi, I was not interested in the drinking, womanizing and general dissipations the other students fell into on free evenings. The chastity and abstinence demanded of his religious beliefs dovetailed neatly with my terror of women and the fear of losing control and showing my cursed face while drunk.

I found him undemanding company, whose 'live and let live' attitude did not challenge my desire to keep my ugliness covered. We were set to work as a team throughout that first season on the Versuvian slope, and proved to be a good one. We worked the long hours with shovel, chisel and brush without complaint; each evening Angadi was eager to catalog the day's discoveries at the doctor's direction, while I sketched and took notes.

The next summer Angadi Singh stood on the dock leading up to the Pompeii work site; despite myself I returned his excited halooes, and accepted his enthusiastic hug and back-pounding with aplomb. That summer I was given a team of my own to direct, and Angadi worked directly with Doctor Beulé, the site's rich field requiring constant documentation. As before, our mutual youth and lack of interest in the 'manly' pursuits again set us apart from the other students working with Doctor Beulé and Sir Ian Dickerson…a newcomer to the field from Edinburgh University.

I again spent many companionable hours with Angadi Singh, discussing religion, art, and the day's artifacts. In the process I learned a great deal of the Sikh life, and still remember what Angadi Singh told me regarding his religion and lifestyle.

I have endeavored to use this knowledge in disguising myself as a Sikh.

The first step is that of dying my skin and hair very dark…my hair is indeed now black. My skin has taken the walnut-hull stain well, and I appear as dark as any Punjabi Rajput. Sikhs do not cut their hair, instead coiling it atop their head in a knot that is placed upon the crown of the head. I am, of course, at a disadvantage as I have shorn hair, but the required wearing of the turban will disguise this. It is the facial hair I must work out now.

Using the dyed hair cut from the front and sides of my head, as well as a good amount of coarse black hair clipped from the hide of a black ram, I laboriously adhere it onto my face using spirit gum. This will thickly and evenly cover both cheeks, chin and upper lip, wherein I twist the hair that hangs beneath my jaw into a 'tail' that tucks neatly into my turban. The effect is realistic, and thick enough to cover the scar tissue upon my right cheek so well it is discernable only upon parting the hair. I give myself thick brows, thereby hiding the misshapen right eye socket and temple. I believe the glue will last for at least two days if I am careful.

The feel is indescribable…I want nothing more than to begin scratching frantically.

I have fashioned a very thin leather skin for the side of my nose. It works…but is discernable close up unless kept heavily coated with thick theatrical makeup, and will not last more than a day before it needs resetting.

Clothing must be made from items formerly in the crates in the hypogeum's main chamber, and what I can steal in the newer districts of Lyon far south of Croix-Luizet. Having taken all I needed from the hypogeum, I am avoiding Croix-Luizet completely, unwilling to bring any further grief to the residents by compelling Zamir Ibn Hashim and his English cohort and army to hang about. I have, however, kept a contact there, and I can exchange messages with that contact concerning Brother Luminere's continuing activities.

Using the khaki trousers and blouses retrieved from the crates, I fashion the traditional tunic and loose breeches worn by the Indian Sikhs of the British Army. I have the finely-woven cloth for the turban in navy blue and black; the trick will be tying it, as I have never done a proper dastaar, only the pagri over the scarf to hide my face. The circular iron bracelet and dagger (the _karā _and _kirpān_ respectively) are easily acquired. I find a wide leather strap to serve as a weapons harness and belt for the tunic, and tucking the trousers into my slightly modified ugly brown boots will complete the costume. I would prefer a less 'military' appearing costume, but this is what I have.

Having procured the day's newspapers, it is dressed just so that I go to the cafe located across from the 'foreign' market not far from the Rhône docks; I am hungry and desire coffee. I have spent the morning among talkative people, listening to gossip. The Persian assassin has not been at all discrete; he had just last night visited one of Lyon's premiere brothels and nearly killed one of the girls there. He and his Englishman lawyer are presently staying at a private _pension_ in on _Rue __de __Martine._

I have every intent of visiting them both soon…

But first I must find Aislyne; I am fearful she might not wish me to find her, however after the ordeal of escaping Hashim and his soldiers.

Those first crazed hours I spent searching the hypogeum, looking for some sign of how and where Aislyne had gone. I found fresh bullet strikes in the ancient walls over the tunnels, and blood on the wall in the second tunnel not far from the end. Springing the trapdoor, I climbed down into the massive cistern there, and found blood and muddy footprints leading into the Roman aqueduct. Sick with fear, I rushed to the only possible terminus, seven miles away to the southwest…going overland, I admit…and found the stone and mortar wall I had built in the well's side shattered. The defective lamp I had discarded at the end of the second tunnel I found sitting some distance back from the well exit, empty of fuel.

Aislyne had crawled _seven __miles_ through the old Roman aqueduct.

I have not found her yet. But I now have a very good idea of who knows where she is…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nadir Kahn awoke when the cold steel of the knife blade touched his throat. He did not jump, or indeed make any move whatsoever. "Erik. Yes, it is good to see you also, dear boy."

Erik was clearly not amused by Kahn's light tone. "Where is she, Daroga?"

"I can only assume you mean Mademoiselle Butler." Nadir raised a hand and pushed the knife away from his neck. Erik allowed him an inch…then another. "I would like to sit up and turn on the light."

With some reluctance, Erik moved back, then helpfully pulled Kahn from his pillow by the neck of his nightshirt. Pushing his face toward Kahn's, he growled, "Nothing heroic, old man. I have already removed the jambeya from beneath your pillow."

"Then you know I am unarmed. Let me turn up the lamp, so I can see."

"Light is unnecessary, Daroga! You know very well what I look like. What I want to know…"

"Yes, yes, you wish news of the Mademoiselle. I, however, require light. And you will find I have nothing to say with a knife pressed to my jugular."

Erik actually hissed…something only he could do to any affect. He made no further threatening moves, however, as Kahn threw the blankets aside, swung his legs off the bed and turned to light the lamp upon the bedside table. Fists pressed to his complaining back, Nadir scanned the scowling apparition at the side of his bed revealed by the lamp light.

Erik was dressed in unrelieved black, from the heavy silk sherwani's upright collar, to the closely cut black churidar tucked into high, black boots. It reminded Nadir of the first time he had visited Erik in Tehran; then too the boy had dressed in black, and was known by all as 'Aeshma'…_Devil_. Yet Erik was unmistakably still disguised as a Sikh tonight, his head neatly wrapped in black linen, the iron karā about his wrist and empty sheath for the lethally sharp kirpān slipped through his belt. The black beard and luxuriant mustache were twisted together along his jawline, in Punjabi fashion, the tails tucked into the black fabric that so neatly covered his head.

The deep color of his skin and black facial hair contrasted sharply with his icy-green eyes. Eyes that were anything but friendly.

Pushing to his feet, Nadir said, "Perhaps I could interest you in a cup of tea, Erik? A hot drink would certainly be most welcome to me."

With an exasperated gasp, Erik actually stepped closer, the sharp kirpān moving forward… "Nadir! I want to know where she is!"

Nadir canted a disapproving eye at the knife. "Please allow me to leave my bed and find my robe. It is chilly, and I am old…as you have so kindly pointed out."

After a moment, Erik sighed in resignation. Sheathing his kirpān, he stepped back, waving his hand towards the door. "Fine, a cup of tea. And then you tell me what I want to know."

Eventually Nadir Kahn was wrapped securely in a thick robe, feet shoved into wool slippers, and both he and Erik seated in the wing chairs before the small fireplace. While Erik turned up the gas lamps at both sides of the mantle and started the fire, Khan lit the warmer beneath the teapot. Eventually Kahn held a china cup and saucer full of hot tea; Erik struggled to hold his temper.

Nadir sent a sharp look at his brooding visitor, saying, "Coming here was extremely foolish, Erik. Surely you realized from our meeting earlier today that I am being watched and followed?"

Erik's darkly dyed skin took on a maroon tinge. "I gathered that from our brief conversation over a 50-franc note, Daroga! I, however, am not being followed. And I assure you, no one saw me come here."

"Arrogant fool. You are so sure of yourself."

Erik shot back, "Indeed I am. Now…"

Nadir continued, undeterred by the impatience clear on his visitor's face. "It would be a shame if you were to be captured because of this idiotic trick! After so many months of planning and sacrifice. And you would gamble that away in this fashion." Nadir shook his head.

Teeth flashing in a humorless grin, Erik fixed his eyes upon the ceiling. "I particularly enjoyed my _carefully planned_ stay in a stinking cell in the Rois. Your idea, if I remember correctly, Daroga."

Sternly, Kahn said, "Surely you realize I saved your life, boy?"

"I realize I nearly lost it…along with my head! Did you know they decided it was murder…Umbaldo Piangi's death?" Grunting, Erik raised one hand, obviously planning to rub at his face…only to jerk his hand away upon touching the false beard and mustache.

Nadir smiled faintly at Erik's discomfort, firmly repressing his doubts at the man's oft-proclaimed innocence in Piangi's demise. Erik claimed there was no way the rope he had placed about man's neck could have strangled him…unless Piangi had strangled himself. "Yes, Erik. It was in all of the papers, you know."

Erik's face twisted, then he laughed. "Oh, yes. I read them all. I found the illustrations of the Opera Ghost most educational; Aislyne thought them defamatory." For a moment Erik seemed to have forgotten what he was about, where he was. But his gaze sharpened and landed back on Nadir. "So you wish me to believe that you…along with de'Chagney…planned this elaborate charade in order to free me from the Rois? How very appropriate, as it was you…and no doubt de'Chagney who gave me up to the Paris police and put me there!"

Nadir raised his hand. "Erik, I have explained that. I would never have done it had I not already insured you would not be going to prison, but to the Rois. I knew I could improve your lot there…and deal with the warden…which would be impossible in Mazas Prison or the Conciergerie. It was only a matter of time…"

It was obvious Erik was working himself up to a fine tantrum. "Yes…and what of my sentencing! To die, Daroga. To die for a murder I did not commit!"

"Erik, that detail fit quite elegantly within the plan. Do you not see…the man who murdered…who _allegedly _murdered Umbaldo Piangi is now dead! _You_ are free…and alive. We merely needed to stall the inevitable court decision until a suitable substitute for the Opera Ghost was found, and…"

Face now livid, Erik snapped, "Fourteen months, Nadir? I cannot believe it took you so long to…"

It was too much…Nadir could not contain his anger at the man's carping and self-conceit. Shaking his fist, he loudly interrupted his disagreeable guest's rant. "And yet you were alive! Fed! Not withering away in some fetid bone cellar beneath the streets of Paris! We paid to insure you were fed, that you were given clean clothing, and frequent access to bathing." With a start Nadir realized he was all but yelling at the now-silent man across from him. Seizing hard upon his emotions, he composed himself, astonished that Erik had not yet throttled him. Warily he watched as Erik brooded, staring into the fire.

Eventually, Erik growled, "I care nothing about that now. I wish to know what has happened to Aislyne Butler."

Nadir relaxed, saying, "Aislyne is still here, in Lyon, staying with the Countess Grantham. Her sister is here also, attempting to extricate her from the mire the local police have made of the murders of Xavier and Chanson…" Nadir stopped for a second, arrested by the flash of strong emotion on Erik's face.

Erik covered his eyes for a moment with one hand. "Go on, Daroga…she is well, did you say?"

"She is fine, Erik, hidden from public and official view. She was able to bamboozle two of my agents who recognized her at the Parc Lyon two days past, escaping capture and much unpleasantness." When Erik's expression became alarmed at this revelation, Nadir added, "The Mademoiselle landed in good hands there…the Countess recognized her and whisked her away. The Countess is a confidante of the Mademoiselle's sister, Lady Van Cliffe, who is also in Lyon." Nadir gave a short chuckle. "Aislyne Butler has astonishing luck, I swear. She is an amazing woman, Erik."

"You need not tell me that, Daroga." Nadir was relieved to see the easing of his friend's tension.

"I am sure I do not. The Mademoiselle is also safe where she is, as I know the Countess Grantham well. And now, let us talk about you, my friend." Setting his empty cup and saucer upon the small table set between the two chairs, Kahn tapped the back of Erik's hand where it clenched the arm of his chair.

"Talk? There is nothing to talk about, Daroga. I am being hunted by Zamir Ibn Hashim, who is assuredly also seeking the woman he found in the underground chambers where he expected to find me. He knows who she is, and knowing Hashim, he wants to torture her to torture me. So…I must find him before he finds Aislyne and kill him." At Nadir's expression, Erik's brow lowered. "Now what? You do not approve?"

"What if you were to leave France…go far away? Perhaps then you would not have Hashim's blood on your hands. You and Mademoiselle Butler…I thought…"

Erik launched himself from the chair, and began pacing, his arms wrapped tightly about his chest. After several assays about the room, he stopped by the fireplace, his eyes on the dying fire. "She said her heart was mine, Daroga. We held each other, and she kissed me. She kissed _me_!" Kahn was transfixed at the vulnerable cast to Erik's features, and the gentle timber in his voice. As if remembering that kiss, Erik's eyes had closed, and his fingers crept to his lips, touching them.

"It is not too late, Erik. You can still leave here, with the Mademoiselle. It is a very big world, my friend, and even Hashim's reach is not infinite."

Erik stared into the fire for a second more, then returned to his chair, his expression bleak. "Now that Hashim knows I am alive, he will not stop until he finds me…_finds __us_…again. And it is Aislyne he will go after first. He will hurt her, Daroga, and then he will kill her…and that I cannot allow."

Nadir felt sick, knowing Erik was right, watching as the man again left his chair to pace before the fireplace.

"How can I ask Aislyne to share my life…go anywhere…if it will mean she faces Hashim again some far-off day? He wants revenge, Daroga, and will never stop now that he is sure I am alive. So…I must kill him." Stopping before the older man's chair, Erik held out his shaking hands, his eyes hard. "But by doing so…by saving Aislyne from Hashim, I render myself unfit to offer her my soul, Daroga. I will be irreparably damned, and she with me if she chooses to stay."

Unsure of what the troubled man meant, Nadir could only advise him, "I think you need to discuss this with the lady herself, my son."

Yet Erik continued in that vein, saying, "You see, my friend…nothing has changed. I am the Devil's Child. And once I kill Hashim, I will also then be a monster and a murderer…my very soul lost. I will only damn both of us if I then return to Aislyne."

Nadir Kahn was shaken to the heart by the man's words, realizing exactly what he planned to do. Pushing forward on the chair, Nadir said, "My friend, you make no sense to me. It is not like you to talk of such things! Why, when have you ever believed in the soul?"

Erik again stared into the waning fire. "Daroga, I have spent my life denying the spiritual nature of man, believing it to be nothing but a shell game foisted upon the naive by the Church. Heaven and Hell…one's ultimate fate…and your incessant lectures on the inestimable worth of one's soul…" Giving a strange bark of laughter, Erik turned to smile at Nadir. "I thought such talk nothing but table-knocking and spirit lights…a particularly clumsy form of magic. Am I not a master magician? You and I both know _that_ is naught but redirection and sleight of hand."

Kahn could only nod, his eyes fast upon the strange expression that now lit Erik de'Carpentier's face.

"Daroga, there was a reason Aislyne Butler was sent to me. A reason that goes far beyond that of shepherding me across France and Italy. She was sent to…ah…well, suffice to say, it was not as you might expect."

Nadir openly showed his doubt. "And she told you this?"

"No, of course not. Well...actually, I believe she tried, but I could not then comprehend what she meant." Erik's face gradually fell, the light leaving his features, his eyes darkening. "But I must stop Hashim from ever harming her. And in doing so, I render myself…unsuitable."

Nadir Kahn pushed himself back into his chair, and snapped at his downcast friend, "Erik, you speak nonsense! Kill Hashim if you must, but it changes nothing! The Mademoiselle believes you murdered Umbaldo Piangi. She loves you despite this."

"Yes, but _I know_ I did _not_ take Piangi's life." Erik stared into the dark past Nadir, his face falling. "I cannot escape my past, can I? All of those who died by my hand at the order of the Khanum and her cursed whelp…in Mazandaran…in Tehran…" Erik's voice became rough, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.

"Erik, you were ordered by the Shah…by the Sultana Khanum … You were so damned young! You never had a choice!"

"Daroga, the Sultana knew she could manipulate me into doing what she wanted. I resisted her demands…but I could not fight them both, she without, and the…the anger within." Erik's eyes were again wide, seeing past the walls of the room, into some personal unimaginable hell. "I cannot bury the Devil's Child…I have tried to do so these past weeks. Aislyne…I nearly killed her, once. Did you know that?"

Nadir could only shake his head, numb at his young friend's words.

"She left her bed on the Pullman one morning to fetch a drink, awakening me where I slept in her Pullman on the floor. Foolishly, I grabbed her from behind to stop her from screaming with fright when she saw me." Erik's lips curved upward, as he continued. "She surprised _me_ instead, nearly breaking my ribs and pulverizing my right foot in retaliation…and then realized it was me. She turned, apologizing…and looked into my eyes…without fear.

"But I was so angry…" Erik rubbed carefully at his eyes, and continued. "And suddenly I was…overcome with the need to put my hands about her neck and watch her die…"

Nadir shivered as Erik's hands clenched, long fingers white with strain. Erik's hands were weapons no man took for granted. "But you did not hurt her, Erik."

Looking up at the Daroga, Erik said, "The Khanum demanded I look into the eyes of those whom I…executed…look into their eyes as they died. She said…she said it would free me of the terrible guilt…that I might sleep at night again without nightmares." Rocking his head side to side, Erik's voice grew harsh with dark anger. "And I believed the raving bitch!"

"Instead, I found my mind preoccupied with the business of death…and I grew to desire the thrill of humbling those who openly abused me to my face, who called me unspeakable names. _Who __denied __me __my __humanity_! In their eyes I saw their terror as they realized they were dying at my hand. Their eyes…" Erik's forearm covered his face, and he sagged against the mantle. Voice weak, he continued. "For years afterward I could not look into another's eyes without rousing the angry monster within, and the memory of that desire! Even Christine…"

'_As __if __I __needed __another __reason __to__ hate __that __woman, __and __her __miserable __son__'_, Nadir thought sadly.

Erik pushed back from the mantle, and Nadir nearly cried out at the sight of his friend's face, bone white against the dark ersatz beard. "Erik…you have changed. You are no longer the man you were in Persia."

The smile that crossed Erik's face was nearly hidden by the ridiculous mustache…but heartbreaking all the same. "I have changed, Daroga. Before I was a monster…now I am a monster in love. I have known peace…I have been loved."

Nadir rose from his chair, his hands before him. "I see no monster, Erik. I see a man…who is still lost in his past! You are no longer alone, my friend. You are no longer the Sultana's slave, or living in exile beneath the opera house."

Laughing softly, Erik whispered, "Aislyne once said to me, 'set your thoughts and hopes to the future. Give up the past!' It is lowering to think the two who are closest to my heart are so aligned in their thinking."

Nadir felt as if he might weep, but instead smiled gently, saying, "You choose wise friends, my son."

Erik turned his head to again look into the now dying fire. "Daroga, anger and death again seek to overrun my mind and soul. Once I kill the assassin, I am lost forever, beyond recall. Aislyne cannot save me from this, and she is surely doomed if she stays with me. She needs to move on...find her salvation with another, and leave me to my…fate." Erik wiped furiously at his eyes.

Deeply shaken by his friend's words, Kahn strode forward, arms outstretched. "Erik…no. No, you must not do this. You will break her heart… You will break your own!"

Turning away, Erik strode to the doors leading out into the hall of the hotel. Voice low, but rough with emotion, he said, "I want you to get Aislyne Butler out of France…take her to England…take her to the ends of the earth, if you must…but take her far from me. Once I have…dealt with Hashim I can no longer help her…I am useless to her. I want you to do this, Daroga. You brought her into my life…and now you must take her safely out of it."

Then he was gone…slipping through the doors like smoke. For a moment Nadir Kahn stood at the fireplace, wondering if he were instead still asleep in his bed, having dreamed the entire episode.


	55. Chapter Fifty Four

**Chapter Fifty Four**

Two days of bedrest may have done wonders for my physical being; the agony in shoulders and knees had receded to an ache, the clangor within my head stilled to a whisper. Even the ugly cut on my scalp made itself noticeable only when I bothered to pull a brush through my hair.

But three days without news of Erik wore heavily upon my mind. Three days since I had touched him, spoke with him…the man I had known little more than a fortnight now rode my thoughts without mercy. And the need to escape the garish Dutch Blue hell wherein my well-intentioned captors insisted I stay became a maddening itch, driven by impatience and burgeoning fear for Erik.

I should have been more grateful for the thoughtful acts of my hostess, Olivia Nassau, Countess of Grantham, in sheltering me while the Lyon constabulary rattled doors across the city looking for me. And my poor, misguided sister for her attempts to direct my gaze toward cruel reality. Even the young physician had become a party to the conspiracy to protect one love-sick spinster from the madness and death that seemed to surround her.

And if they found me a bit preoccupied, a tad vague and unfocused, I am sure they put it down to exhaustion. I tried to attain some sense of calm, to keep my wits and temper. But after _two __days_…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Directly after my sister's visit, Henri was prompt with the headache medication, handing me the prescribed cool, strong tea to wash down the powders…a bitter brew. Nonetheless I appreciated the relief from the nagging pain that rendered every position uncomfortable.

Having watched as I finished the medicine and tea, Henri gathered both cups, preparing to leave. "The Countess wishes t' visit as soon as you are comfortable."

"Do I stay in bed, Henri? Should I not wear something more…modest?" I pulled at the wisp of silken fabric, attempting to increase coverage of my near naked shoulders and chest.

Henri shook her head. "You stay in that bed, miss, or I'll be in t' put you there. You look fine, and I'm thinking the lady cares little what you are wearing." With this Henri left me to await Lady Nassau's appearance.

It was only a few minutes before a firm tap upon the door, and Olivia Nassau swept in, swathed in yards of translucent silk befitting a Greek _hetaera_, wearing golden laced sandals, her head wreathed in flowers and silk ribbons. I immediately sat up, the coverlet pulled to my chin, wondering how one curtsied while in sickbed. Countess Grantham however ignored me, fussing with the pillows, stacking and plumping them, whilst I sat stiffly, my eyes kept firmly averted; my lady's attire revealed far more of the woman than it concealed.

Ignoring my overt disapproval, the Countess stepped back. "You may relax again, Miss Butler. You look _most_ uncomfortable as you are." Gingerly, I sank back against the mound of pillows, unconsciously sighing at the relief to my shoulder and neck muscles.

Arranging herself upon the chair next to the bed, Olivia Nassau said, "Aislyne…" then inquired, "May I call you by your given name? It seems silly to remain formal when your sister is my _dearest_ friend."

I nodded, saying, "Yes, please do, my lady…"

"And none of that. My name is Olivia."

"Yes your…um…Olivia." Smoothing the counterpane over my lap, I waited, unsure what the lady wanted. Eventually her silence drew my gaze to hers, wherein I realized she was studying me most intently. "Is there something wrong, Olivia?" I smiled, if only to hide my extreme discomfort at being so minutely inspected.

"I have a great many questions, as you quite well know. However, I suspect it will be a trial to get answers from you, Aislyne."

I could only agree. "No doubt."

Her laugh was genuine, but there was a hint of a pout about her mouth. "I do admit to being extremely curious about your present predicament. As for the Banberry tale you gave your poor sister…" To that she rolled her eyes.

At my look of feigned outrage, the Countess tipped her head, her entire expression one of challenge.

Routed, I crossed my arms and looked away. "It matters little what you think, Lady Nassau. I told her what I could."

After an awkward stretch of silence, the Countess seemed to accept that I had nothing to say that would assuage her curiosity. Dropping clasped hands rather decisively upon one satin-covered knee, the Countess leaned in, saying, "W_hy __ever_ have you turned down your sister's offer to spirit you to the stud farm in Ireland? It would be perhaps the _best_ choice for you…".

"Olivia, I know what is _best_ for me. Going back to Ireland is not among the choices." I assumed a pleasant smile, despite my fiercely expressed words.

A censorious lift appeared upon the lady's lips. "So, you mean to stay here, though the police are beating the bushes looking for you…and your sister near prostrate with fear and worry."

I winced, remembering my sister's reaction to my refusal of her offer. "Beyvin should…I would much prefer she wash her hands of me. I seem only to bring her heartache. And I am long past the age where she…or anyone…can dictate what is _best_ for me."

"She is worried you will be taken by the police…_imprisoned!_ My dear Aislyne, you are a woman with no social standing…and your current employment does little to elevate your status. You _need_ your sister! Your connection with Lady Van Cliffe may be all that saves you!"

I felt anger bloom…unjustified and pointless, perhaps. "No, I cannot allow her to do that! Her husband hates me well enough now for the 'stain' I bring to his family by his wife's association to her shamefully employed sister."

"Van Cliffe is an ass."

I was surprised at Olivia Nassau's words. "The Baron? I thought he was a great friend?"

"_Beyvin_ is my friend. The Baron is a great blustering _bore_, who…_like __you_…frequently chooses to _abuse _his wife's kind heart. He is impressed by my rank. The fact he will allow his wife to have _anything_ to do with me speaks of the man's shallow intellect and lack of moral integrity."

Shocked, I stared at the hard face of the woman across from me. "I do not follow…what did you…?"

Olivia's eyes were blue…now a cold, stark shade of blue. After a moment of fraught silence, she tipped her chin, saying, "I am not a _virtuous_ woman, my dear Aislyne, nor have I been a faithful wife. I have behaved in _scandalous_ fashion without proper regard for British society's _delicate_ sensibilities for nearly _every __day_ of my years as James Nassau's wife…which is why I am quite happy here in Lyon, France. I _openly_ have lovers. I have men in _constant _attendance, and expect I always will." The fierce light of defiance remained within her gaze, yet her voice softened. "I am not a fit companion for a gentlewoman such as your sister, Aislyne. Van Cliffe is an _idiot_ to leave his wife in my company while he spends his time _frittering_ away his inheritance."

I blinked at her admission, but felt compelled to say, "My Lady Grantham, Beyvin is an adult. That she considers you worthy of her friendship says more about _you_ than anything expressed by Pecksniffian British society."

I was amazed to see a blush suffuse Olivia Nassau's cheeks, and she looked quite affected. I was then given a most genuine smile. "Yes, she is my friend, by the absolute grace of God."

I could say nothing to that, having become slightly uncomfortable at Lady Grantham's sudden blush of goodwill.

Leaning forward, the Countess said, "Beyvin has told me about you, Aislyne."

A frisson of dread wiggled down my spine, and I shifted my eyes to my hands, convulsively gripping the counterpane. "I find it interesting you and Bey find gossip about her troublesome little sister of any interest."

Lady Grantham quite abruptly quit the chair to sit upon the side of the bed. She clasped my nearest hand, confiding, "Beyvin told me…_everything_. All the amazing escapades. Every exciting detail."

"Oh…little to tell, my lady. I have lived an…unexceptional life…" I silently swore to throttle my sister.

"No, Aislyne, you have lived a most _singular_ life. Brought to life by your father at birth. Riding to hounds from a tender age. Bedeviled by the parish priest, and outsmarting him…twice! Stealing books from the parsonage library when you were what…ten? And becoming a runner for the London demimonde, then a message boy for West End criminals…while disguised as a young lad. And let us not forget the circumstances of our meeting, my dear! Dressed as a man, hiding from the '_fliks_." Shaking her head, the Countess exclaimed, "'Unexceptional?' I think not!"

I scowled. "Lady Nassau, this is all past history. I am no different than…than anyone who has lived in a small village, circumscribed by small minds and…and evil. My escapades in London were foolish and dangerous, and deserve no admiration. And I cannot help that the police have now decided to pursue me instead of the men who actually murdered Chanson and Xavier."

I had to rub at my eyes, furious at the sudden weakness speaking their names caused. "But I made a commitment when I accepted this assignment…and I mean to do my best to see it done."

Olivia Nassau leaned towards me, saying, "A commitment…to whom? To this man who has abandoned you to face this all alone, or…"

Swallowing my rebuttal of that word 'abandoned', I said, "I signed a contract accepting this assignment, and in the face of everything that has happened, I am still bound by that contract. My…patient is still here, in Lyon. That we have been separated by circumstance is regrettable, but I will find him, and we will continue to Italy as planned." I cast a quick glance at the Countess, who again appeared highly amused.

Lifting her chin, she said, "Is your _employer_ aware that you are now being sought by the Lyon police for the _murder _of two men? That might have some impact on _his_ commitment to the contract between you, do you not think?"

I waved her question away, unwilling to discuss it. "I have no doubt the Lyon police will soon realize their mistake and pursue the correct line of investigation. I have in fact heard there are those who are pushing them to reevaluate the official assumption of my involvement…"

"Ah, yes…Inspector Kahn. Your sister did mention she had spoken with him at the British Embassy."

I was most uncomfortable with the subject of Nadir Kahn, but did not wish to alert the Countess to that fact. "Yes, she told me of him. I can only hope this entire situation will soon clear. I desire most particularly to leave Lyon, France behind!"

Belatedly I realized how thoughtless I was being. "Of course, I am aware I owe you a great deal, and do appreciate all you have done for me. If this entire situation should become untenable for you, I will leave."

Amusement yet again lit Olivia's face at this. "Indeed? But Aislyne, _where_ would you go?"

Stung by her mocking tone, I bit my lip firmly, and stared at the squared off shape of my feet under the counterpane. "I am not without resources, you know."

"I am _pleased_ to hear it. Let us contact them and settle this situation _immediately_. I can also discretely seek this _elderly __gentleman_ for whom you feel such responsibility. Surely he could go on to Italy with another suitable caretaker?"

Stricken at the thought, I gasped, "No!"

The Countess continued unabated. "Otherwise I will insist you stay, if only because you are protected here. The police will not seek you within _these_ gates, I assure you."

"It is not the police I am worried about." I immediately regretted saying that.

Again leaning toward me, Olivia Nassau's gaze was sharp. "_Then __who, __Aislyne_. Not the de'Chagny uncle, I am sure."

Covering my eyes, I murmured, "I believe I am developing a headache. I honestly have no idea of what you wish from me…"

Olivia's impatience was quite obvious. "Aislyne, I can _help_ you. I know very…_very_ powerful men here in France."

I dropped my hands and snorted most uncouthly. "It is those 'very powerful men' who have thrown us into this…this stewpot. I have no wish to rely further upon the machinations of _powerful __men_…"

Belatedly I shut my runaway mouth, fighting the threat of tears. Instead I sniffed and wiped my eyes upon the pillow cover, saying, "I cannot waste time lying in this bed. I have things to do, Olivia! And I am not going to allow you or Beyvin to send me to England, Ireland or Timbuktoo, Africa until I have heard…" I set my teeth, unwilling to say more.

"Until you have heard from _him_. The de'Chagny uncle?"

I glared at my abuser. She did not, however, stop talking.

"Yes, Beyvin told me all about this '_elderly_ gentleman'. He must be a very vital and vigorous man to be _so __old_ and still elicit such dewy-eyed devotion."

When I did not deign to respond, Olivia Nassau pushed herself from the bed, saying, "Doctor Montrose would like to see you again this afternoon, and I have _no __doubt_ he will advise you to spend several more days in that bed."

I had to ask; "Have I have met this Doctor Montrose?"

Olivia Grantham waved one hand negligently. "It was Jeremy Montrose who put those stitches in your head. Oh, and he removed those in your wrist, did you notice?"

I rolled my left wrist to reveal the long pink scar, now nakedly vivid without the stained white silk sutures. "Oh."

"Yes, another tale I would love to hear. However, Jeremy needs to see to the cut in your head. Meanwhile, I will leave you to your thoughts, and Henri's tender care."

The Countess floated from the room, draperies wafting behind, leaving the sweet scent of hothouse flowers in her wake. She left the door to my room open. It made no difference; I was trapped nonetheless.

~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~

Some time after my noon meal, I was given the opportunity to wash and change into a clean nightgown…another silky shift that fit too low over my chest, and whose hem hit me mid-shin. As a concession to my modesty, Henri provided a lovely peignoir of the same fabric, with wide Japanese sleeves and sash; it too fell short of my ankles, although I could wrap it about myself, thereby doubling the amount of fabric I could hide behind. The peach color was lovely.

Eleanor accompanied the physician, staying through Dr. Montrose' visit, as was proper. I was again intrigued by the doctor's unconventional examination, as he poked and prodded at my back, neck and shoulders, requesting I lie supine and prone both during his examination and administering quick pressure at cervical, lumbar and sacral vertebrae, eliciting a veritable fusillade of popping and cracking. After several deep probing pushes with fingertips into the muscles of my back, I could not help but ask him, "From what medical school did you graduate, sir? I find your technique quite unusual. Nor do I recognize your accent…you are not British, are you?"

"I am an American, Miss Butler…Kirkland, Missouri is where I call home. And I must confess I only briefly attended medical school."

Understandably, I was a bit shaken to hear this. "So you are not a physician, then? You are not a…"

"I am a Doctor of Osteopathy, Miss Butler. I apprenticed for several years under Andrew Still, the founder of osteopathic medicine in America, and attended classes at the College of Physicians and Surgeons in Kansas City, Missouri. I assure you I have earned my professional doctorate quite properly through examination and casework. Would it ease your mind if I was to fetch my certificate of registration to practice medicine?"

"No…no, you need not do that." I am sure the man heard quite clearly the patent doubt in my voice; I had never heard of 'osteopathic medicine'.

Gently guiding me to sit on the padded bench brought from the dressing room adjacent, he stood behind and placed his hands in the space between my ears and collarbones. Fingers digging delightfully into the painful muscles at the base of my neck, Dr. Montrose proceeded to educate me.

"Osteopathic medicine promotes the idea that the body is an intricate machine, which if kept in good adjustment, properly fueled and maintained, will run smoothly into old age. We feel the primary cause of disease can be traced to the disorder and misalignment of the musculoskeletal system, and the subsequent restriction of nervous pathways. Therefore, by studied manipulation of that system, realigning and adjusting the spine and major attachment areas, the osteopathic physician seeks to free the movement of nervous impulse and the cerebrospinal fluid throughout the spinal column. This returns the body to order and alignment, supporting good health."

"And…you are adjusting now?" My voice came out strangely because of his thumbs pushing vigorously at the base of my head. He moved one hand to my chin, and tipping my head, quickly twisted it to the right…and the left. The resulting noise was frightening…yet I instantly felt a nagging ache located at the back of my neck and skull disappear.

I could not stifle a gratified sigh.

"Yes, Miss Butler…that being a cervical release, bringing the cervical vertebrea into proper alignment. Do you feel improvement in your neck, Miss Butler? You do appear to have a great deal of muscle tension in your neck, shoulders and back." The young doctor moved to the nearby dresser to write in a thick leather journal laid open there.

"Oh, yes! I am sure all of which are caused by my having to walk crouched over for so long."

Instantly two sets of eyes went wide, intently awaiting further illumination. When I patently declined to say anything further, Dr. Montrose raised one brow. "Looking at the state of your hands and knees, I think you probably crawled as much as you…walked bent over. It would appear you were in a most distressing situation, Miss Butler."

I looked at my hands, rubbing at the scabs that covered the knuckles and backs of my fingers, unwilling to speak of the nightmare spent creeping through several miles of underground aqueduct. Instead I merely nodded, and looking into the young physician's eyes said, "Yes, I was."

Eleanor did not bother to hide her disappointment.

The remainder of the examination was of the injury to my scalp, wherein Dr. Montrose was pleased with the look of the wound. He assured me there was no infection, and since I could not see for myself, I had to trust his judgment.

At my inquiry regarding my release from sickbed, Dr. Montrose pulled a long face. "Another day of rest is certainly called for, Miss Butler. You cannot deny that you are in considerable pain because of muscle strain, and I would like to continue treatment for several more days."

I realized the physician was only being cautious, but I still protested. "I do not believe 'several days' are called for, sir. Beyond the head wound, there is nothing wrong with me that 'tincture of time' and due caution will not mend without medical intervention. And I am qualified to care for the head wound…"

"Yes, Miss Butler. I am well aware you are." His smile was wide, and with a sinking feeling I realized he knew exactly who I was. I sat stewing upon the bench while Eleanor spoke briefly with the physician at the door, and then with a nod, she followed him out.

~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~

Henri had several times attempted to put me in bed throughout the afternoon, without luck. She had eventually left me to my pacing, cursing and brooding.

Waiting for Olivia to return.

After Jeremy Montrose' departure, my demand to see Olivia Nassau _immediately _was met with the disclaimer she had left much earlier to perform in another open air concert…which did explain her outrageous costume.

Thwarted of immediate release from my anger and burgeoning anxiety, I could only march about the ghastly hued chamber and fret. I was in a fine state when Lady Grantham eventually stepped into my room several hours later. It did not moderate my temper to see she had taken time to prepare for bed. I wasted no time on polite discourse.

"You tell me I am '_safe_' here, Lady Nassau, yet every person who enters the front door is appraised of the fugitive Englishwoman in the upstairs guestroom! This is not a policy that encourages me to feel very safe at all!" Pacing about barefooted on the scratchy-rough blue carpet, I allowed my hands to twist about the lovely peach peignoir's sash.

With an expansive wave of one hand, she dismissed my concerns. "Jeremy is _utterly_ trustworthy. If I ask him to say _nothing_ to anyone, he says nothing! You need to be in _bed_, Aislyne. Not mangling that lovely wrap, or wearing holes in my carpet."

Bothered by her air of patient indulgence in the face of my agitation, I confess I became uncivil. "Just because Jeremy Montrose is your present lover does not mean he is 'utterly trustworthy'!" I felt my face instantly grow hot, shamed by my ungoverned tongue.

The Countess sighed, and unfolding her hands gracefully towards me, said, "Aislyne, _Aislyne_. Young Jeremy is _not_ my lover. He is in France to study under a _very_ famous surgeon in Paris. _That_ surgeon has, indeed been in my bed, and we have remained _good_ friends. He and his wife were both here for dinner just last week…at which event I became acquainted with young Dr. Montrose. He is here attending lectures at the Université de Médecine, and has since become a frequent guest of Grantham House. A fact which proved to be _very_ fortunate for you, yes?"

I had to admit, the young man's presence had proved providential, but I refused to relinquish my original charge. "Nevertheless, I must protest your lack of discretion. I understood my being here was to be something known only to you, our sisters and Henri. Does the staff also know who I am?"

"I have not actually _informed_ Cook, the maids of all work, or my butler and two footmen of the identity of the…ah…'fugitive Englishwoman' occupying the Blue Boudoir. They may realize you are Beyvin's sister…I _really_ have no idea. I doubt they know the significance, if _that_ is any consolation. And it is all of no matter, as the Lyon police will _not_ be at the door to arrest you."

"Lady Grantham…"

"Call me Olivia, _please_. I cannot stand being reminded of my married state."

Pushed beyond patience by her attitude, I leaned over to grasp the arms of the chair occupied by the Countess, glaring directly into her artfully rouged face. "I am not worried about the Lyon police. I am worried about the men who killed Dietré Chanson and Thom Xavier, worried they will hear of the woman who was dressed in men's clothing, now staying here, in this house. I was dressed just so when I made their unwelcome acquaintance…and escaped them!"

The Countess seemed interested by my sparse description of my meeting with Zamir Ibn Hashim, but declared, "I trust every one of my servants, and vouch for their _absolute_ discretion. Nothing that happens here becomes chatter or gossip over a pint in the local ale house." Gaze sharp, the Countess drawled, "Surely you can _appreciate_ how much I would value such discretion in my household, considering the way I _live_?"

Struck by her rationale, I straightened and stepped back, only to be over-swept by an immediate feeling of light-headed nausea. I staggered, arms flailing…and Olivia rose swiftly, moving to slip an arm about my back.

"Enough, Aislyne. You may finish chastising me for my feckless behavior tomorrow. Tonight…you need to rest."

I glared impotently through the haze that obscured my vision as I was pushed toward the bed, the much-shorter Countess suddenly displaying a talent for moving large, uncooperative objects. "You are just like your sister…you have burned yourself out with worry and fretting…"

I know I disputed that, but I am afraid it was lost as Olivia called for Henri to put me back into my bed.

Another chapter will be up SHORTLY. The weather is so crappy here I can't ride (a nice little mustang named Ace) so I will write. (sigh).


	56. Chapter Fifty Five

**Chapter Fifty Five**

Slipping quietly through the door, Henri held a dress over her arm. "This one is finished, and timely done. Lady Nassau has asked that you dress and come down to the sitting room."

"Now? Today?"

"Aye, Miss Aislyne. That is, if you feel well enough…?"

I immediately assured her I did, and left the chair to look at the dress she laid at the end of the bed. It was of mahogany brown lustring, the fabric crisp with a subtle copper sheen. The cut was simple, the neckline moderate, sleeves fitted to the elbow with a fan ruffle, and a wide gathered panel added to the bottom of the skirt to provide the necessary length. The fabric of the skirt was pulled in the back for a subtle draping, yet in no way pronounced in appearance. The bodice was cut simply, with a vertical row of self-covered buttons adorning the front. The modiste had followed my wishes exactly.

Just that morning Beyvin, Olivia, Henri and I had gone through the gowns, dresses, suits, skirts and shirtwaists Beyvin had abandoned in her closet at Grantham House over the past three years, having decided that remaking them would be much faster than starting from scratch. Mrs. Bert, the English modiste favored by the Grantham household, had been very accommodating with this cost-saving measure. As Beyvin and I were generally of a size, adding length became the major difficulty, with adjusting the necklines a close second. I also demanded the removal of artificial enhancements fore or aft.

Upon Henri pulling the garment from the dress rack, I had immediately admired it…Beyvin simultaneously dismissing it.

"Not that one, Aislyne! I have no idea why I ever chose that color! And the cut is so dated."

Ignoring my sister, I cooed over the rich color and crisp feel of the silk fabric. Olivia draped the skirt across my shoulder, stating, "The color is meant for her, Beyvin. It certainly goes with that hair."

Henri nodded, eyes squinted, saying, "And it brings out the fine color in your cheeks, Miss Aislyne." The dress was handed to the modiste, to be quickly joined by a visiting dress, several afternoon dresses, a house gown, traveling suit, and several miscellaneous skirts and blouses of unremarkable cut. As I discussed with Mrs. Bert the removal of extraneous fabric needed for bustles, ornate drapery, or trains of any length, Beyvin made unhappy faces.

"I had no idea you were a member of the 'sensible dress society, Ails. Or perhaps you aspire to live like George Sand, walking the streets in men's clothing, smoking cigars and playing the rake with actresses and penniless musicians."

Shocked, I snapped "Good heavens, Beyvin, have a care what you say!"

Olivia gave Bey a poke with her finger. "Stop picking on your sister, darling. Aislyne, I believe Bertie needs to fit one of the dresses, but it will take but a moment." Grabbing Beyvin's arm, the Olivia firmly escorted her from the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~

Discarding the silken bedgown for a homely calico wrapper, I washed vigorously, unmindful of Henri as she bustled about the room. I was therefore much surprised to see the plethora of white linen garments that had joined the mahogany gown on the bed. Holding up the whaleboned corset, I shook the disagreeable item at Henri. "I refuse to wear this. I'm no debutante who needs to squeeze into a ball gown, Henri. This dress has a most reasonable fit requiring no lacing to whittle my waist." I passed the garment to Henri.

Henri's brows met contentiously over her nose. "Miss Aislyne, you will notice as the corset helps fill the bodice…er…front. You have little enough t' do it otherwise." She turned the corset to show me strategically placed padding, meant to boost one's bosoms upward whilst filling out below. Why any woman found it important to make her chest to look like a roosting pigeon's, I had no idea.

I laughed, then bit my lip at the dark look Henri cast me. Putting an appeasing hand on her shoulder, I said, "I am as God made me, Henri. Stuffing my bodice does naught but make me feel foolish."

Henri reluctantly set the corset aside, handing me drawers to pull up over my hips, while she readied the chemise to be dropped over my head. Both items were of snowy linen, with lacy cutwork along the hems as well as down the center of the low-necked chemise. My poor breasts added little flourish to the feminine _etalage_; the past few weeks had not been kind to my already spare figure. Henri patted my hand, saying, "Least ways you have not t' watch every bite for fear o' popping your stays. A few weeks o' regular meals will set you t' rights, Miss Aislyne."

I pulled stockings of transparent silk to above my knees, tying the garter ribbons, then stepped into the full, double petticoats, allowing Henri to tie them with a secure bow. She slipped the dress over my head, and settling the narrow shoulders, began buttoning the myriad buttons up the back. My neck and collarbones were exposed, but the _décolleté_ was otherwise unremarkable.

Provided with an array of combs and pins, I pulled my hair back from my face, coiled as usual, but parted aside to cover the ugly cut in my scalp.

Slipping low-heeled bronze Moroccan slippers over my feet, I stood before the dresser mirror to check my appearance. The bodice did suffer from a lack of 'substance', but over all I was pleased. The dress gave feminine curves where I had none; the half-sleeves lent an air of comfortable informality, and I did see how the color of the dress flattered that of my hair and skin. Henri handed me a diminutive handkerchief and smiled. "You do look lovely, Miss."

As little as I wished to admit it, I did feel a burst of well-being upon seeing I was still, most undeniably, female. Immediately I wished Erik was there to see me in that lovely dress.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Years ago I amused myself by thoroughly investigating the dusty regions of Le Corbusier, seeking an alternate exit, should one become necessary. It was not inconceivable that I would find such a thing as most of Old Lyon is built upon the ruins of the Roman city of Lugdunum, dating from 43 BC, and the old city is riddled with underground marvels. It was my studies in archeology at that time, working on the excavation of several small sites throughout Lyon, that tipped me to the possibility.

I was to suffer disappointment, finding Le Corbusier of solid, modern construction, without a single breach in its cellar walls capable of serving as an emergency exit.

I did, however, find several heavily cobwebbed and seldom-used passages winding up through the hotel within the thick walls surrounding the four massive central chimneys. Careful investigation revealed these provided access to the kitchen, all four of the 'premium' suites located one on each floor, select closets and storage rooms, the roof, and the attic of the hotel. The attic being an empty, low-ceilinged expanse broken by the four massive brick and iron chimneys rising to the roof, I found nothing of particular interest there at the time. Far more interesting was the ability to visit the liquor cabinet or the kitchen in the dead of night without seeing another soul.

The attic is now where I sleep, having proven dry and warm; the dust tells me none but the hotel cats come here. There are banks of windows set in wide dormers across the front and back, providing sufficient ventilation to what could otherwise prove an uncomfortably warm space. I have 'borrowed' a thin mattress from storage to serve as a place to lay while I attempt to sleep.

There is a downside to this fine arrangement: I must leave in the wee hours so that I am not seen, slipping out the back entrance by way of a storage closet by the kitchen. My disguise does not make me invisible, merely unrecognizable. It is best, therefore, that one so notable as a stray Sikh not be seen in the hotel without having a room.

And so it is that in the pre-dawn hour I have twice settled in a quiet corner near Rue Martine and watched Zamir ibn Hashim return to his lodgings. As a faithful Son of Mohammed, Hashim does not consume spirits, but it would be foolish to believe him unimpaired. Market gossip is that he prefers to start each evening of debauchery with a generous hit from his snuffbox, its contents being cocoa leaf powder cut with snuff, a European vice of near epidemic proportions in these 'enlightened' times. His behavior would support this supposition; it is reported that the man is loudly belligerent and increasingly violent while roaming the '_maison close'_ district of Lyon in the district surrounding Fort Chabert. More in character, he has savaged several '_fille de joie_' during these forays, his aptitude for cruelty no doubt doubly fueled by the drug's stimulating effects.

This morning Hashim stumbles from the hired carriage, heavily supported by two of the private guards, while being loudly chastised by his Englishman for the night's excesses. Hashim's graphically profane response is equally loud, but fortunately incoherent to all but those who understand Farsi.

Passing awkwardly through the gate, the company staggers sideways up the stone walk to the narrow stairs leading into the building. They enter the pension, met by two more of the guardsmen, who have spent the night guarding his quarters. The remaining guardsman will be awaiting them at the door to his room, having spent his evening inside. Hashim may be arrogantly sure of himself, but he is no fool.

One of the original six is gone…and if I am to believe my 'vision' of Nanny Tess, the man was shot by Aislyne in her escape from Hashim. I stop myself from brooding further on that event, having consoled myself with the thought that it may well have 'cured' my darling Madam Butler of her infatuation with a very dangerous lover. How could warm feelings survive being left behind to meet Zamir ibn Hashim _alone_…much less the subsequent ordeal in the aqueduct. No…she must be tending her wounds and thanking a benevolent God for her escape from Hashim _and_ Erik, former Opera Ghost.

Despite the pain of these thoughts, I tell myself an Aislyne Butler grown indifferent will live long enough to love again. It does nothing to stop my longing to see her, however.

Voices intrude upon these thoughts. There are several men now at the pension's gate…four of the uniformed guardsmen…and three are carrying duffles. A wagon awaits them in the street, the driver calling out for them to hurry. It would appear that several members of Hashim's private army are leaving; one calls to another, "I will see you back in Paris when this foolish business is over."

Which means Hashim will have only two men with him, besides the Englishman Delcourt.

This is a significant upturn in the situation, improving my odds of actually getting close enough to Hashim to kill him. Of course, my survival has not figured into my plans; I must be realistic. I am no longer young, and every day I feel my body failing me. The muscles are not there; the joints creak and protest. And within my breast there is that ache that does not go away, and the feeling of breathlessness at any extreme exertion.

Hashim, on the other hand, does not seem the least impaired by the years passed, if the evidence of his nightly activities is to be believed.

Therefore my goal must be to surprise and kill Hashim as quickly as possible, and hope his remaining men dispatch me with merciful alacrity. I refuse to be taken prisoner to be incarcerated yet again.

I believe the best time to attack Hashim is immediately upon his return from his nightly deprecations. I can surprise him on the street, while he exits his fiacre, or strike at the doorway to the pension…there are a dozen ways, all depending upon the physical disposition of his two remaining men. I have discounted any defense offered by the Englishman; I know his type well. He will slip out of sight at the first sign of trouble.

I would prefer a 'silent' method of dispatch, but realize his armed guards might dictate the use of a pistol. Shooting him in ambush does not appeal to me; I want to confront him_ d'homme à homme_. I need to know if he has come on his own, or if the Shah sent him. Of course, the idea that he would answer my questions merely because of a gun stuck in his ear is ridiculous. He is like to dissemble as fiercely as any backstreet thief. His English partner, however…

I could kill him tomorrow morning, acting as the situation dictates.

_**All the very same decisions and thought processes of the morning before, unfortunately**_. I should have done the deed this morning…my pistol and dagger are on my person. I am dressed for the task.

Yet the visit with the Daroga and all I have learned wars mightily with my resolve to act swiftly, and I vacillate depressingly. I want to know _she_ is well…that all I have chosen to do is not in vain. I must fight with the impulse to see her _just once more_.

The light of morning sends me off to find my breakfast. Today I will go to Parc Lyon to listen to the music, and perhaps Aislyne's countess will be there.

I do not take my thinking past that point.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Imagine my shock upon entering the sitting room to find not Olivia and Eleanor, nor my sister still spoiling for an argument…but Inspector Nadir Kahn, standing before the windows, his back to the room. For a long moment I considered backing out silently and returning to the ersatz security of my bedroom. Before I could make up my mind the footman had closed the door behind me, and Kahn turned, a wide smile stretching across his face.

I curtsied, saying, "Inspector Kahn." I did not attempt to smile. Truth told, I was seconds from bursting into angry, frustrated curses.

Nadir Kahn was noticeably checked by my cool reception. "My dear Mademoiselle, I am gratified to find you looking so very well."

I could only nod, my mind ticking through the possible consequences of Nadir Kahn knowing where I was.

Waving gracefully at the wide settee at the center of the long room, Kahn said, "Countess Grantham was kind enough to provide us with coffee. Please join me in a cup."

Had Beyvin sent him a message when I refused to leave France? Why did Olivia purposely forego telling me I had a visitor? How was I to keep Kahn from using me to trap Erik? Hating the panicked tone of my thoughts, I straightened my spine, and assuming an air of cold outrage, demanded, "Inspector Kahn…how is it you know I am here?"

Still smiling, he again indicated the settee, saying, "Sit and I will tell of two foolish young men who attempted to capture one clever Englishwoman in the park."

Surprised, I gasped, "You were there?"

Canting his head, Kahn said, "I most fiercely wish to enjoy my coffee, Mademoiselle, before it grows cold. Please…" Again a wave at the settee.

After a moment's hesitation I moved to the settee, stuffing myself firmly against one end, and folded my hands into my lap. I would not look into the man's face, afraid he would see my anxiety seething beneath the calm façade. "I await your story, Monsieur."

Kahn sat before the coffee service…pointedly crowding my 'half' of the settee…and deftly prepared one creamy cup for me, offering it with solemn gentility. Then sipping frequently at his coffee, he related the story as told to him by two young agents. Remembering how clumsy they were, it was surprising to learn they worked for Nadir Kahn. I was also chagrined to hear how easily one had seen through my masquerade.

Kahn's story ended with the declaration, "I knew exactly _who_ had rescued you by their descriptions. Olivia Nassau and her sister are widely known in Paris as well as Lyon for their unusual style and excellence as musicians."

"So, you have known I was here, at Grantham House since…"

"Within hours of the Countess taking you from the park. Dear lady, my relief was monumental." Nadir Kahn seemed truly pleased to find me safe, his expression that of avuncular warmth. It was becoming incredibly hard to remain aloof.

Why did Nadir Kahn have to be so terribly _nice_?

Fiercely I admonished myself for my damnable naiveté. Where was my native distrust and suspicious nature when most needed? This man could be the reason two fine men had died. He might have led Hashim to Lyon and sent him to Le Corbusier to murder Erik. If nothing else, I suspected he had withheld the information that Erik's life was in danger.

Suspicion and speculation be damned…I needed to know!

Setting the cup and saucer upon the table…my hands had become quite unsteady…I turned stiffly to glare hard into Kahn's face. "And what now, Inspector Kahn? Do you think to use me as bait to draw Erik out of hiding so your men might gun him down? Or will you hand him over to the murderous Persian Hashim, so he might collect Erik's head for the Shah?"

Kahn did not speak; in fact he did not react at all, his eyes fixed upon mine.

Voice suddenly unsteady, I added, "It matters not, as you are wasting your time. Erik de'Carpentier has departed Lyon and is well on his way to parts unknown by means discrete and undiscoverable. Do what you will to me…you will _never_ find him." I thrust my face toward that of Kahn, to declare, "He is safe!" Tightening my arms about my trembling middle, I glared defiantly into the man's face.

Kahn's face bloomed with unexpected humor, and the man actually chuckled. Smiling, Kahn held up one scarred palm, saying, "Mademoiselle Butler, you have a very wrong impression of me and we must mend that. I am not Erik's enemy, I am not looking for him, and I certainly do not intend to deliver his head to the Shah. I have been, and remain Erik's friend, and like you, seek to keep his head firmly attached."

I shot up from the settee. Voice strident, I cried, "How can you say that? You of all people must have known they were coming for him, yet you said _nothing_…and I gave you every opportunity Nadir Kahn! I actually sought you out to ask your help when I received warning of their pursuit. And now Chanson and Xavier…" Overwhelmed with anger and renewed grief, I was rendered incoherent, my hands clenched tightly in fists.

Nadir Kahn reached out and gently grasping my wrists, tugged me back down onto the settee. Helplessly I allowed it, feeling doubt and fear at war within my heart.

Kahn explained himself, ticking off points upon one hand. "Dear lady, I came here, to Lyon on the same train that brought you. I kept to my private car, located well before yours on the train, to avoid your volatile patient. I believe you are aware of my reasons."

"I have had no contact with the de'Chagny's at all, and therefore knew nothing of what was happening in Paris. I have also received no news of consequence from my office."

"I therefore knew nothing of Hashim's pursuit of Erik until he and his henchmen came to Le Corbusier three days ago looking for him." Kahn stopped for a moment, his expression grim, then continued.

"After our last visit together in the tea room I wired the Vicomte de'Chagny, requesting an immediate report on any situation that might have repercussions for your party. I received no word of dire developments in Paris; in fact I received no answer from de'Chagny at all!"

Kahn dropped his hands to his knees, his expression no longer sanguine. "I knew you were troubled by something besides the attempt to snatch you from behind the hotel. And you made it very plain you were greatly disappointed in me. This is true, yes?"

I nodded silently.

"I am not here to hurt you Mademoiselle, or take you prisoner to be used to trap Erik." A grin snapped across his face, as he said, "I can state with certainty Erik is definitely not 'well on his way' anywhere. I was awakened very late last evening by his knife laid against my throat." Nadir added, "Next I see him, I will advise him of the tigress you have become in his defense."

I gasped with delight upon hearing Nadir had just hours ago seen Erik…even if it sounded most unfriendly. Questions crowded my thoughts, and I eagerly leaned forward.

Nadir Kahn held up his palm, silencing me. "Have I redeemed myself in your eyes, Mademoiselle?"

Put on the spot, I could do naught but stare wide-eyed into his face, torn by my need to protect Erik, and the fervent wish that Nadir Kahn might help me do so. Truthful, I could only say, "Inspector Kahn, I am not an overly trusting person."

His smile returned. "It is an occupational reality for me as well, my dear, as I must consider all guilty until they prove themselves otherwise. However, it is important that you trust me. I cannot help you if you cannot do so. If we are to save Erik from himself, it will likely take both of us, acting in accord. That is, assuming you wish to stay with Erik…"

This time I all but pitched myself across the settee to grasp Kahn's closest forearm, saying, "Yes! Oh, yes!" Forgetting anything resembling maidenly modesty, I gasped, "I love him, Monsieur. Quite immoderately so!"

Belatedly, I blushed hotly and retreated to my end of the settee.

Nadir Kahn's face lit with pleasure. "I have hoped for nothing less, dear girl."

For several moments neither of us spoke as I composed myself, drying several renegade tears that threatened to spoil my dress. Kahn made free with the coffee urn, shaking his head at my untouched cup, cooling on the tray.

I was thinking over the events of the past days, now reminded that although I knew of Erik by Kahn's report, Erik likely knew nothing of my present disposition. "Inspector Kahn…does Erik know I am safe? I stayed at Parc Lyon for an entire day hoping he would look for me there…that he would think of it too. It was the only public place where I knew to go and be in a crowd."

Kahn reassured me. "I told him you were safe. As it was the primary reason for his rather dramatic visit in the dead of night, it might have gone ill for me had I not. Our conversation was less than cordial."

Erik acting 'less than cordial' was a daunting prospect. "You are at Le Corbusier, then? Are the Gadreaus still there?"

Kahn expression turned both disgusted and pained. "Yes and yes. I insured both received medical care for their injuries. Ah…perhaps you are not aware that Hashim beat both of them badly. I arrived too late to do more."

I dropped my eyes to my hands, unwilling to admit we had watched the entire scene from across the boulevard. "I knew of it." Closing my eyes, I forced myself to continue. "And their beating is my fault. In my hurry to get Erik away from the hotel, I neglected to warn the Gadreaus."

"Ah, regrets. What would be the world without them."

"Please…tell me of Erik, Mr. Kahn. Is he…well? I fear the effect this situation will have on his mental state as much as any threat of physical harm. "

Kahn eyed me carefully, then folding his hands together decisively, declared, "Mademoiselle, Erik has given me the…responsibility of escorting you from Lyon, and away from France in as expeditious a manner as I can contrive."

"What? I cannot leave!"

"But, Erik is quite adamant, Mademoiselle. He feels once he has dispatched the Shah's assassin he will have become someone far too dangerous to return to you."

"Mr. Kahn! What…whatever does he mean? Please…I must speak to him!"

"I fear Erik has slipped into a tormented state. It is as if he has stepped back into his past, and assumed a persona I thought long extinguished. Brought on, I am convinced, by his insistence that it is necessary to kill Hashim…"

I felt the icy fingers of intuition tickling at my memory. Erik's past… "Mr. Kahn, do you speak of Erik's life…in Persia?"

Nadir Kahn's expression subtly closed, his eyes skipping past to look elsewhere. "Mademoiselle, Erik has always been dangerous, make no mistake. I merely thought time had erased the…the need for him to act upon his baser instincts."

I knew Erik was a troubled man…and I knew why as well as how. For an moment I was once again pressed helplessly in the dark corner of the Great Chamber of the Hypogeum, a unwilling voyeur to Erik's tormented anamnesis. I shuddered helplessly at the myriad visions of terror-distorted faces surrounding bulging eyes, the life force fading.

"My dear, are you unwell?" Kahn's hands grasped mine, and I was pulled from those terrible thoughts. Quickly I reassured the man, but for the life of me I could not look into his face.

Breaking the spell, Nadir Kahn gently patted my hands. "I have tired you, Mademoiselle. Please forgive me." Standing briskly, Mr. Kahn moved to lift my hand to his lips. I twisted it to hold his instead, hanging on ruthlessly.

"No…Mr. Kahn…please. I need to see him, to talk to him." I stood, retaining my grip upon him. "I beg you. I shall run mad if I go another day without…" I was startled to see I was nearly half a head taller than Mr. Kahn. Unwilling to stare down into his face, I quickly sat upon the settee.

I did not let go of his hand, however.

Kahn seemed shocked by my behavior, but being the gentleman he was, he simply rejoined me on the settee. "Dear lady, if it were in my power to take you to Erik, please believe I would do so immediately, and without hesitation. I think Erik would change his mind about a great many things if he were to spend five minutes in your company."

"Then please, let us go. This very instant!"

Kahn laid his free hand over mine where it held him fast. "I have no idea where Erik has gone to ground. I first saw him at a local café not far from the docks. Mademoiselle, you would not have recognized him. Erik was always good with disguises."

I could not help thinking, 'Oh…I would have known him!'

Eyeing my expression, Kahn continued. "That was yesterday morning. He then came to see me last night. I did not ask where he was staying, and not surprising, he did not volunteer that information."

I was gripping Kahn's hand much too hard; ashamed I released him, gripping my own hands together instead. "This is a nightmare!" Looking at Kahn, I said, "I must find him…_before_ he kills Hashim."

Nadir Kahn nodded. "I will go to the café tomorrow to see if he is there. I cannot promise…"

"Mr. Kahn, I know. But you can tell him…tell him I refuse to leave! Tell him…I have suffered a severe injury! See…it would not be a total fabrication." I pulled at the side comb holding the hair over the gash in my scalp, and despite the pain, pulled the hair aside to show Kahn the terrible wound.

Kahn inspected it, obviously unaffected by such sights. "My dear Mademoiselle…so very close! Were you shot?"

I patted the hair back across and tucked it behind my ear. "The physician is not sure if it was a rifle shot, or a ricochet from one." Briefly I told Mr. Kahn the circumstances, his expression going from thoughtful to grim. "Whatever it was, you need not tell Erik it was _not _a gunshot." I looked to Kahn hopefully.

"Hmmm…well, you certainly came very close to unpleasant circumstances. And after what you have experienced, it would be churlish of Erik not to come to you. But, of course, I cannot promise I will see Erik at the _maquan_…"

I looked down upon my hands, unwilling to beg. I then opened my mouth, realizing I _was_ willing to beg…"Please..."

"I will do what I can, Mademoiselle. That I promise."

Nadir Kahn stood, and this time I allowed him to kiss my hand. With a bow, he was out the door, leaving me to stand at the window looking out upon the narrow street.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

I watch Olivia Nassau, the Countess of Grantham, at Parc Lyon. Dressed in diaphanous silk, she appears as foolish as she is talented; the woman can play the violin nearly as well as I.

She laughs with the male musicians seated near her as her eyes rove the faces of the men who surround the dance floor. Twice she acknowledges my feigned interested gaze. I do not allow my ego to become too massaged by this, as the woman is a compulsive flirt, whose many '_affaires d'amour_' have set her among the longer-lived scandals among the _aristocratie_ of Britain and France.

But then, I do not blame her. In her situation, I would have done the same, and mayhap added spousal assassination to my sins.

Olivia Nassau nee' James is the eldest daughter of a minor British peer…I believe he was a Baron. Having inherited an impoverished estate without income, the man made his fortune in textiles, building two manufacturing plants for the production of fine cloth, and running them himself. He made a fortune, married a expatriated Frenchman's daughter, and eschewed London in favor of the local gentry. His wife, however, wanted her girls to have the best chances at successful marriages, hence they were sent to London to participate in the folly of 'the season'.

Sent to London at 17 and touted as an heiress, Olivia endured two seasons without snaring a suitable husband. The stigma of her 'tradesman' father was too much for even the most desperate of the titled gentlemen who hoped to improve their family circumstances through marriage.

Disgusted, her father sent her to France to spend time with her mother's family, all of whom were former French nobility and members of the Paris elite. By then, young Eleanor was starting her first season in London, and proving to be most intractable.

Naturally, everybody knew James Nassau, the very British Duke of Grantham. Having spent most of his adulthood on the continent, defying his father's wish that he 'come home and start his nursery', Grantham instead landed in Paris, enjoying the burgeoning underground society of those who shared his sexual tastes. The Duke and his proclivities were well known by the Parisian second estate, yet once he began playing open court to the innocent heiress, what could anyone do but encourage the match?

Bets were laid in men's clubs across the continent. Stories were told of the Duke waltzing with the dewy-eyed Olivia at a ball or soiree, only to be found minutes later in some dark corner, slaking his lust with the nubile scion of one noble family or another. The looming train wreck that would be the young Olivia's life should the Duke wed her was apparent to all. Nobody, however, felt it necessary to tell Olivia James of her attentive suitor's true bent.

It is rumored that James Nassau admitted his disinterest in his new bride in lieu of performing his nuptial duty on their wedding night. He left Paris the next day, taking his cortège of young men with him on a train bound for Frankfort, Germany. His pockets flush with the contracted yearly stipend paid by the bride's family, he left a devastated Olivia in Paris.

Naturally Olivia's father attempted to take legal action against the Duke. When it became apparent that attempting to prove non-consummation would do nothing but expose his daughter to prurient speculation, Sir Henry told her to come home. Before she could even pack her bags, both of her parents were murdered by 'highwaymen' on the way back from a neighboring town.

Eleanor James joined her sister Olivia in France, and they moved to Lyon and took over Grantham House instead. For many years Nassau's father, the Earl Grantham, paid her sufficient stipend to allow her to stay in the house. Lately she'd had to blackmail her husband to pay up, his title now that of Earl as his father had passed.

I feel great sympathy for the hard-eyed woman who plays the violin with such grace and brio. I am not, however, happy Aislyne Butler is now part of her household. Despite my dark thoughts, I play court to the countess from afar, enjoying the music immensely. I insure I am invisible when there is a break in the music however, as I have no interest in actually speaking with her.

It is near dark by the time the concert is over, and I am exhausted; my face has become a raging fire, my skin so sensitive that to touch my ersatz beard is agonizing. Nonetheless, I stay long enough to follow Olivia Nassau home, staying well back in the shadows. Surrounded as she is by admirers, I have no fear that I will be noticed.

Eventually I slip into the back of Le Corbusier and stride past the kitchen to the small storage room set beneath the back stairs, disappearing into 'thin air' before the inattentive eyes of two laundry maids down a dim hallway. I would ordinarily never have taken such a chance, but I am compelled by need.

My beard and eyebrows are itching like fire, and I am afraid my discomfort has gone beyond my ability to ignore.

Later, looking in the large mirror of the bath I have used during my clandestine stay at the hotel, I realize my disguise is now useless, as the skin of my face is fiery hot over cheeks, chin and forehead. I can only wish I had access to Butler's heavy box of potions wherein she doubtless has just the concoction that would soothe this face.

I close my eyes and visualize smoothing a cooling crème or unguent over my fiery skin, imagining the heat receding and maddening itch of my eyebrows fading. Such mental tricks have served me well in times of extreme physical discomfort. Perhaps the removal of the offending spirit gum and hair have given salubrious effect, as in time I am able to fall asleep.

I am exhausted, having pushed through the day on adrenaline alone. I certainly have no heart for what I have been doing. The business of killing holds no attraction for me now…can it be the 'monster' within is tamed?

Tomorrow morning, then. I must strike Hashim as I planned. I did not seek this vendetta, did not start it. But I do intend to finish it.

There is one thing I need do, however, before I die. Setting my internal alarm, I go to sleep.


	57. Chapter Fifty Six

**WARNING - MILD SEXUAL CONTENT **

**ALSO: I have done a 'mild' edit on the very last paragraphs (3/30/12).**

**Chapter Fifty Six**

I was pulled from sleep, heart pounding and instantly wide awake. My first thought was that unconsciously I had sensed some sign of threat; holding my breath, I strained to hear above the roar of my bounding pulse. But there was nothing, only silence beyond the occasional ticks of the cooling fireplace. No feet trod the hallway, no lamplight shone beneath the closed door to my room.

And then the thinnest zephyr of sound touched my ear, soft as a breath. Holding my head above the pillow, I closed my eyes as the faintest of melodies swelled and receded, teasing my memory. The single notes filled out into chords in my imagination, the spiraling flurry of double and treble rising…then swooping down again in a quick flurry…

It was the piano sonata Erik had written to prove music had the power to affect the emotions. _He was here!_

Tossing covers aside, I left my bed in one bound, sore muscles forgotten. Sweeping one foot beneath the bed to locate errant slippers, I pulled the satin peignoir over my white cotton shift. In the mad rush to the door I belatedly recalled the need for stealth, and opened the door carefully; two of Olivia's footmen were the last of the staff to retire, and routinely walked the halls at odd hours of the night.

An oil lamp sat at the top of the stairs on a small table, casting imperfect reflections across the wall behind it and the polished floor leading to the stairs. Nothing moved in the wide entry hall below, it too illuminated by a small lamp. Stepping carefully I slipped down the hall and the stairs, nerves jumping at every inevitable creak of the old wood. I stopped at the bottom and again strained to hear, noting that the sound seemed stronger toward the back of the house.

I followed the central hallway back to the library, a spacious room with elaborately glazed doors that led out to the terrace behind the house. I was certain now that the music came from the tanglewood that filled a large percentage of Grantham's rear grounds. Overgrown and neglected, I had pondered its arboreal profusion from my bedroom window several times. It appeared to be naught but a jungle of ornamental bushes, boxwood hedge and feral specimen trees, with banks of towering lilac wandering aimless throughout. The roof of a small building was just visible deep within the trees, nearly buried beneath ropes of wisteria and wild grape.

I slipped through the library and after several moments spent fighting with sticky latches, stepped out onto the terrace. Belatedly I realized how very dark it was despite the quarter moon, and that would be setting within the next few hours if memory served. There was only one set of steps from the high terrace that led in the right direction; at the bottom a single flagged walk led into the dark beneath the trees.

As if sensing my misgivings, the violin began again, its voice stronger, richer, and undeniably before me. Heart racing, I stepped past the first tangle of tall hedges and vines, following the stone walk into the unknown.

The dark beneath the trees was near absolute, the air much cooler than on the terrace. Shivering, I wrapped the thin peignoir across my chest, wishing I had thought to wear something more substantial. The path of flagged stone wound through the trees without discernable pattern, and many stones were canted and broken, threatening constantly to trip me. Fortunately, my eyes adapted to the dark quickly enough that I avoided breaking my neck, yet I stumbled more than once and tree limbs and grasping vines made the going more interesting than I could like. Nothing, however, could have stopped me from following the intoxicating call of Erik's violin.

Quite suddenly a clearing opened before me, the path twisting to disappear again beneath the trees. My eyes had become accustomed to inky darkness, so it seemed unnaturally bright out under the open sky. The granite folly whose top I'd spied from my bedroom window now stood lit by the waxing moon, shafts of moonlight slipping through its latticed roof to illuminate the heavy mantle of ivy that swagged the folly's interior. Beyond this lay a long, narrow pool, dry and filled with debris, ringed by a narrow stone terrace. Statuary clustered at the edge, standing upon low, fluted plinths. I recognized only the 'Three Graces' among the worn, ghostly forms. Cracked and discolored with age, one of the Graces had lost her head; it now lay, pale face up, nose barely cresting its nest of dry and weedy grass, lending a surrealistic air to the scene.

Erik stood at the opposite end of the clearing; eyes closed, his body swayed as he performed to the uncaring sky, lost in the magic of the music. Dressed in black, his lean face and large hands glowed luminous against the dark backdrop of the trees, and moonlight danced along the edge of his gracefully rocking bow, flashing quicksilver. He was intimidating, remote and unearthly, and I could now see why many had thought him an ethereal spirit of the night, a ghost…_an angel_.

Enthralled, I stood unmoving beneath the edge of the trees watching him, pulled by the man but unwilling to break the spell he wound about me with his music.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is scant light to guide my feet, rendering treacherous the long walk along the rutted cartman's alley that runs behind the massive estate houses on _Rue de __Étranger_. Grantham House is the fourth property along the path, and unlike the others who have merely fenced their properties in thick hedge and wrought iron, Grantham sports a smooth concrete wall, at least ten feet in height, topped by wicked metal spikes. It is no surprise that Countess Grantham seeks security from a hostile world; I am also aware she keeps a small staff, but that two of her footmen, formidable specimens both, serve as her personal guards. Perched atop her closest neighbor's fence I watch for a nightwatch or groundsman, but evidently there is none. All windows are dark; nothing moves within or without. After a long hour of cooling my heels, I decide I've waited long enough.

I move along the high wall until the woods behind Grantham House block me from its view. Having brought a crudely contrived ladder made of knotted rope, I secure the instrument case and my cloak behind me, and throw the weighted end over the wall, a sharp tug whipping it about one of the spikes. I am able to conquer the wall in two tries, scraping my knuckles and tearing the knee in my only pair of good black trousers. I can feel blood trickling down from the corresponding scrapes on my left leg.

It is dark as pitch beneath the trees but I find a path and follow it, sure it will inevitably lead to a suitably secluse spot from which to give my serenade. Eventually the path debouches into a small formal space hidden at the center of the labyrinth; the Three Graces, Venus Bathing, and a rather shabby Eros hold court beside a trash-filled reflection pool, all looking the worse for wear. A small Palladian folly is set across the clearing, near featureless with overgrown vines.

This will be my stage; I pull the violin from its case. It is not a quality instrument, and having sat untended in a pawn shop for years, it has become dry, its cheap shellac finish cracked and flaking. Worse, the tuning pegs are worn, and the instrument resists holding true tune. It must serve, however, being all I can afford.

Having argued the insanity of my present course most of the evening, I am nonetheless decided I will do this. I will play, one last time, doing so for the woman I love who slumbers peacefully within the walls of Grantham House. It is all I can give her, knowing she will hear me with her heart, even as she rests secure within Morpheus' arms.

I pick compositions best suited for the venue, staying with the softer forms and themes among my repertoire. Each evokes the emotions of its genesis, the times wherein I lived when I wrote them; many are the product of sleepless nights and loneliness endured in the days before Christine. In reality, had I the time I have _years_ of sweet music to play for Aislyne…reams of musical notations…leagues of score and stave, all written in the hope that one day I would give them to an appreciative world.

Instead I will pull a few from memory to play a private symphony of love and regret; this will serve as my heartfelt apology for breaking her heart. My last, and very first true performance. Setting bow to strings, I play. Sometimes I sing, words spontaneously forming to the melody. Lost in the music, I am alive only to the feel of the violin and bow in my hands, immersed in the well of passionate longing I feel for one woman.

Gradually I become aware of her…feel the warmth of her regard. Finishing the nocturne, I turn toward Grantham House to see her standing beneath the trees, a pale form set against Stygian darkness. For a time I cannot look away, spellbound by the joy of seeing her…paralyzed by the pain of losing her.

"Erik."

At the sound of her voice the spell is broken and I pull the violin from beneath my chin. My voice is rough, no doubt the night air… "You should not have come down here. I wished only to play for you."

Leaving the dark beneath the trees, Aislyne walks toward me, her face glowing. She is happy…so happy to see me; I feel her reckless thoughts and die inside, just a bit, with every step she takes. I realize what a terrible mistake I have made…_I knew she would come to me long before I ever put bow to strings…_

Nonetheless, I snap, "Why have you come, Aislyne? Have you no sense?"

"You called me to you, Erik. Surely you know that." She stops at arms length and her hands rise from her sides, as if to draw me toward her.

Craven as ever, I clutch the shabby violin against me, a frail shelter behind which I hide from the urge to step gladly into her arms. "You are mistaken, of course. I merely wished to play for you, Butler. I owe you that much for all I have put you through." Even to me my voice sounds hard…angry.

Her eyes reproach me for my temper, yet her voice is rich with warmth. "And I thank you. Although I believe you have done nothing for which you need feel guilty."

Turning away, I pitch the cheap violin into the open case. "This was a mistake…I am sorry. I could not go without…without… It was selfish of me…" I am horrified of the emotions rising within me, yet when Aislyne touches me, I find I must pull her into my arms. I am shaken to my core by the violent thoughts that fill my head…the need to crush her against me, to taste her and touch her, to indelibly stamp my claim upon her. Burying my fingers in her wondrous hair, I free it from it's loose plait and fill my hands with cool, silken glory. I am trembling with emotion, unable to speak.

"Oh, Erik! My darling Erik. I need you so!" She whispers to the skin of my cheek, then lays her lips against mine, and I am lost. For an eternity I am rocked by sensation, helpless as she fiercely lays claim to me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He fell asleep in my arms, his right cheek pressed against my naked breast; I fought mightily the urge to caress his oddly tinted skin or stroke the wild bramble of his hair, afraid he would be instantly awaked. Instead I caressed his face with my wondering eyes, beguiled by perfection limned in moonlight. I grew envious of the large cloak thrown over our nakedness…jealous of its intimate touch against his sweet flesh.

I had taken him where neither of us had gone before, and my heart was now full. The act of love had branded us both in strange and glorious ways; I ached from the violence of our coupling, my breasts felt swollen and sensitive, and my face as if I had scrubbed it with a hairbrush.

I could see where I'd bitten his shoulder in the throes of my release…twice, and there was blood upon the fingers of his right hand…my blood. Elderly I may be, but I still bled when losing my maidenhead. Thankfully, the pain had proved minimal, overwhelmed by the exquisite sensation of his body merging with mine.

Oh!…the visual memories of this night would keep me burning for years. The passion in his eyes as we kissed, the trembling of his hands as he pulled loose the ties of my shift, his look of stern concentration as he moved to join our bodies… His face, twisted with ecstasy, as he drove helplessly within my body, gasping to his release.

We had cried together afterwards…and loved again, this time finding our release together. And then, amid kisses and murmurs of love, he had covered us with his large woolen cloak, pulled me to him, and fallen asleep cradled in my arms.

Carefully I lay my head down, insuring his cheek remained safe against me, and sank into fitful sleep, never far from awareness of the man who slept beside me. The moon fell behind the trees, leaving only the stars to reel about us overhead and too soon I heard the false dawn twitters of the birds in the trees surrounding us.

I awoke with the solution to our difficulties complete: Erik would come to the house with me, and we would plan our escape from France whilst hiding there. My optimism running wild, I could not believe but that Olivia would be happy to shelter us, and that Nadir Kahn could do much to help us on our way. It would serve…

Pressing my lips against his forehead, I whispered against his skin, "I love you, Erik." Content for the moment, I relaxed even as my thoughts spun rapidly through the preparations needed to secure our future, nothing in my head but dreams of love…

Erik sat up, taking the warmth of his body and cloak with him. The icy air striking my nakedness pulled the breath from my lungs; I hissed in mild admonishment, sitting up to pull my shift and satin peignoir from beneath me. I turned to find Erik bent forward, knees pulled to his forehead, hands covering his face.

Quickly pulling my shift and icy satin peignoir over my nakedness I pushed to my knees. Fear and cold set my teeth to chattering, making it difficult to whisper, "Erik? What is wrong?" He did not answer.

And then I was transfixed by the sight of Erik's back, crisscrossed by thick corded scars whose glassine surface caught the faint ambient light. Their depth and number spoke of many brutal beatings with a scourge. With a start I realized the circumstances of those beatings were forever branded in my psyche, as horrifically real to me as if I myself had received every strike.

I could not bear to think of his body exposed to the frigid night air. Gently I laid my hands upon his shoulders, pulling him back…to warm and comfort him against my breast. In an instant I was shoved off my knees, my head thumping solidly against the earth. Instinctively I rolled to my side, curling my arms about my ringing head to forestall further attack. After a moment, I dared to look up.

Erik was on his feet, feverishly donning shirt and trousers, his back to me. Any prurient thoughts the sight of his manly form might have elicited were lost in the shock of his behavior. I sat up, feeling nauseous and confused, my head spinning.

Erik picked up the woolen cloak and gently laid it beside me. "It is cold. Cover yourself." His manner was remote, his voice hard.

"Erik, please tell me what happened? I thought…"

"Never…_never_ touch me like that again. I could not help…"

For several seconds I did naught but stare at him, shocked beyond speech by this unexpected volte-face. Erik's face was in shadow, but I could feel the furious energy of the black rage that consumed him. I pushed to my feet, leaving the cloak where he had laid it, and turned away to fuss with my rampant hair. In truth I sought to hide the helpless tears that burned upon abraded flesh. As always happens, my nose was not to be denied; lacking anything but the satin of my sleeve, I sniffed as quietly as possible whilst mopping the salt from my cheeks with the hem.

Eventually, I turned back, expecting to find myself alone…but Erik stood exactly as before. Hoarsely he declared, "I did not wish to hurt you Aislyne. But I do not want your pity."

I schooled my emotions firmly, then shot him a grim smile. "You know I feel no pity, Erik. And I know better than to lay hands upon you unsolicited. I merely forgot…after…" I held out my hand. "Please…"

Erik neatly avoided me, stepping back and to the side. "I…I cannot. I did not come here to ruin you…I only wished to…to fill the hours until dawn by playing for you. I never dreamed..." His face twisted, and for a moment I thought the man would cry. "I have done the unthinkable…how can you think to touch me after I have ruined you?"

Ruined me? Quite blatantly I looked down at myself; there were grass stains on my shift, and blood on the peignoir. Perhaps my hair was a tangled mess…there was definitely a new bruise on one shin. Shaking my head, I declared firmly, "If I am ruined, Praise God, as it is time and past!" His eyes went wide, but he stayed mute. Stepping closer and I clasped his hands, rubbing the chilly flesh to warm them, wanting to fold them against me. "How can you blame yourself for this night's business when I knew exactly what I was doing…and you, Erik, did not." Before he could dispute this, I added, "I have no complaints, my love. I have no regrets, whatever happens next."

Erik's voice was gentle, his manner abrupt. "Then you are a fool, Aislyne. I will regret it enough for both of us." Grabbing my wrist, and he bent to pick up the woolen cloak, and fanned it across my shoulders. "I will walk you to the edge of this morass so you will not become lost. I must go."

Stubbornly I pulled against him, refusing to move. "Is this how we are to part, Erik?" The contrast between the unnatural tint of his skin and light green eyes made them seem preternaturally lit from within. No passion burned there, no madness, but the consuming flame of his emotions blazed just as hot. Quietly I told him, "What you plan to do is unnecessary, Erik."

"You know nothing of my plans, madam." A brilliant flash of teeth, and he pulled with greater force.

"Oh, Erik! How could you think I would not know what you plan to do next? This very hour, perhaps…" Jerking my wrist free, I yanked the cloak from my back and threw it at him. "I do not need your cloak…nor protection from Hashim."

He caught the cloak neatly. "What I do next has _nothing_ to do with you, Aislyne." His expression was thunderous, his right cheek turned forward…but his eyes were hollow with despair.

"You can hide from others behind your dyed skin and hair…feign anger if you wish, but _I see you Erik. I know you_…" One wretched sob caught me unawares, and for an instant Erik's face softened…his body swayed forward. Stepping back I gasped, "No…oh no." and threw out one hand to keep him away. "Tell me honestly, Erik…would you be so willing to immolate yourself on the altar of selfless sacrifice if there was no reason?"

I didn't expect an answer. "I am not worth your life, Erik. I am not worth the life of _anyone _born on this earth. **I** am the true 'devil's child', born without a soul."

Erik blinked, and his face shifted to that of solemn rebuke. "Aislyne, this is some rude ploy…a jape…"

Fiercely I flew at him, and shoving at his chest, _dared_ him to knock me away. "This no joke. I speak the truth."

"This, then is your dark secret…the thing that sets you apart. You believe yourself a what?…a succubus?" His expression was doubtful, but I had finally swiped that viciously remote look from his face.

I smiled, though hardly amused. "I am no beautiful demon, seducing men for their seed and souls. You are my first lover, Erik…as you should well know…and my last." How bleak that prospect, now that he would shun me as surely he must. "I am _'jeh raie'_...a false child…soulless, given life without the spark of God's grace. The child I should have been died at birth, its soul fled. Foolishly, my father forced breath into its lungs and restored life to the corpse…but that does not change the fact that _I was dead_. _I have no soul_."

For several moments we stared at one another…his eyes seeking something from mine…something he would never find. If eyes were truly the window to the soul, there was naught but emptiness within mine. I turned my face away, ashamed of what I was.

Laying his hand upon my cheek, his thumb beneath my chin, Erik tipped my face back to his, whispering, "No…you… Aislyne, this is arrant nonsense! You have every reason to be angry with me! But to abase yourself in this fashion…it is I who have ruined you." Framing my cold, stinging cheeks with his warm hands, he smoothed my brow. "And…I will speak to Daroga Kahn immediately…this very day, to make provisions for you and any child conceived this night. You will be taken care of…whatever my fate."

As if to belie the warmth of his hands, his expression grew strained…cool… I knew exactly what he was thinking: _'Poor strange, mad Aislyne…'_

I shoved his hands away. Despairing, I spat the words that would indelibly mark me as a woman without worth. "Erik…there will be no child, as I can have no children. I have never…never started my courses as a woman must." After a moment his brow dropped as comprehension dawned; I continued bitterly, "But surely you will agree this a blessing, as what child would wish a souless monster for a mother?"

"And what child would wish to inherit this?" Erik swept one hand across his face. We stared at one another, both of us now shaking with emotions and cold. I felt tears…damn them…searing their way across my cheeks and chin, falling icy cold upon my hands. Erik wept silently, his hands tightly wrapped about his chest.

Brokenly, Eric asked, "What do you want of me, Aislyne?" His tone was resigned. He swept his face with the sleeve of his black blouse; I realized the light had increased enough to see the blacker streaks of moisture left upon the material. It was nearly dawn…

Taking a deep breath, I told him, "I want you to live. If it must be…be somewhere I am not, I accept that. The high peaks of Tibet, the wilds of the American continent…wherever. I do not want you to murder this crazy Persian and die in the attempt!"

Fiercely Erik swept a hand between us. "Hashim must die. That is immutable, incontrovertible, and I will not argue the point! Whether I die is of no concern to me." Erik pushed his hands through his hair, swiped again at his face. He looked worn and weary. I felt the same.

"Then tell me why this man is chasing you." At his dismissive expression, I snapped, "Surely you can tell me? Someone should know!"

"Aislyne…I must go. And you must return to your room before your absence is noted."

I had several retorts to that foolishness, and opened my mouth to deliver one when an idea intruded…one so extraordinary, I felt words leaving my mouth without thought. "Erik…promise me you will do nothing today. Give me today."

"Give you today?…What foolishness is this now?"

"I would have today…knowing you are alive. Just…that. I cannot bear that the memory of this night…may be so closely linked to that of your death. I beg you to…to give me this." I stepped closer and carefully laying my hands against his chest, gazed into his eyes. "Please, Erik?"

I did not flinch beneath his hard, suspicious stare. Without another word Erik turned away, fetching his cloak and the shabby little violin, and started for the trees across the clearing. Helplessly I could only stand and watch, knowing I would never see him again.

And then he turned to stare at me; briefly he shook his head, his lips moving silently. I held up my hand…but he disappeared beneath the trees. No true sense of what he might have been thinking in that moment could I have felt, so terrible was the darkness that now occluded his thoughts, but I could read his expression, knew exactly what he had whispered.

Released from the thrall of silence Erik's presence cast over it, the vicious internal chorus erupted within my head, with words profane, its rapture at my fall limitless. Once again I was theirs…bereft of the dream of love that had burned so very brightly for the barest moment in time.

Just as my father before, Erik had abandoned me to my dark fate, turned his head and heart away. My grief overwhelmed all sense, and beaten, I fell to my knees, keening to the fading stars above. After some time, cried out and shivering, I mopped my face and nose and returned to where the flagged path waited to take me back to Grantham House. I lost one slipper along the way, stubbed a toe into a bloody mess and acquired a few new scratches on my arms and face…I never felt any of it, absorbed in self-recrimination.

Poor Erik…the look upon his face once I had explained my lack as a woman…what man wants a woman not only barren…but cursed? In those last seconds in the clearing he must have realized the magnitude of my crime against him, struck by the horror of having shared such intimacy with an abomination.

It was no surprise he had spoke his horrified thoughts, whispering, ""My God…what have I done?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well…finally, huh. I am not the kind of person who is the least bit comfortable describing sex, but I did the best I could.

REVIEW. Yeah…I'm growing demanding in my old age.


	58. Chapter Fifty Seven

**Chapter Fifty Seven**

Of all Time's cruel promises, the most heartless is that of forgetfulness. Forgetfulness is a lie… Or perhaps there is none for such as me, a soulless thing in woman's flesh.

Twenty years have passed since my parent's deaths, yet the memories abide, fresh and unassailably potent. I recall my mother's face, pale and thin from work and worry. I remember my father lost in his hopelessness and rage, as homesick for Ireland as a babe for its mother.

I never forget the agent for their suffering, the _vera causa_ of their untimely death. Upon my last breath I will know my wickedness, my shame undiminished by…_time_.

~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Despite the manner of my birth, I had always enjoyed robust health. An active child, I spent the largest measure of my free time out of doors: climbing, running, riding, exploring the world of my father's adopted home country, albeit often in the darkness. More to the point, more than once I had found it necessary to cover the distance from the parish school to the boundary of my father's pastures at a good clip; the Graybeal boys found it great fun to ambush me on my way home from school a few times every month.

Yet on this day, the day Father Graves had come to kill me in the parish schoolhouse, I found it necessary to stop frequently, struggling for breath. Frightened nearly witless, many times I fell to the dust of the path gasping for air, eyes searching for pursuers through a haze of exploding lights and encroaching black mist. Frequently near unconsciousness, the fear of being discovered in that state by Devin or Keith Graybeal had the power to compel me back to my feet. I did not fear so much they might hurt me, but that they would return me to the priest.

I have no idea how long it took to reach the manor house. I staggered up the long rise leading to the back, past the silent washhouse and in the kaleyard, through the cool scullery to the kitchen. My mother was not to be seen, the house was quiet, and in my overwrought state it seemed alarmingly unnatural. Spooked, I headed for the barns, past the empty play yard where the younger Butlers were normally found on such days. I could see no one in the horse barns, my brothers doubtless out checking pastures, my father still in town. Beyvin was likely with Mam and the wee ones, though where I had no idea.

And so I went to a place of unfailing comfort, running for the copse of trees that marked the closest edge of the broodmares' pasture. There I crept to the massive white oak that over-arched the horses' favored napping spot, slipping quietly past the round-bellied mares and wedging myself within the wide crevasse formed by the tree's thickly buttressed trunk.

Gradually my heart ceased its wild buck and gallop, and my lungs relaxed into their normal job of faultlessly accepting air. The copper tang of blood was in my mouth, along with that of dust and bile. My lower lip was cut inside from my lower teeth, and outside my mouth felt as if it must be swollen to twice normal size. My chin hurt terribly and blood still dripped onto the front of an already gore-spattered bodice. Both knees were bloody and dirty as were my elbows where they had skidded upon the rough wood and concrete entry to the school building after being tripped by Devin Graybeal.

The memory of the _violence_ of those few minutes in the school house served to resurrect the invisible fist's grip about my throat, bringing to painful recall the priest, eyes bulging as blasphemous words poured from his livid mouth. Shuddering uncontrollably with renewed terror, I wept into my folded arms.

Stiff whiskers tickled my cheek and a low whicker gusted warm, grass-scented breath past my ear; May Queen lipped at my cheek. Gratefully I encircled the wide column of her smooth neck with my arms, and laying my cheek against her, I soaked her dappled bay hide with my tears. Ever-patient with her wild two-legged child, the mare stood stoically, my rock in a sea of confusion and fear.

Eventually I dosed, tucked against the tree, May Queen's sweet breath upon my cheek a familiar lullaby. I heard naught but the drone of flies, and the slap of the mares' tails as they swept the biting pests from their glossy sides.

My father found me there sometime past dusk, his face sober. "Have you not heard us calling your name, _a chuisle_? Your mother is near daft with worry, and the boys walking the pastures to find you."

I could only croak 'no'; I had not heard, lost as I was in blessedly dreamless sleep, aware only of the shuffle of hooves, and the exhalations of May Queen's breath. Even now, she stood within arms reach, nuzzling at my scuffed shoes.

My father reflexively rubbed one hand along the mare's lowered neck, and stood, pulling me to my feet; I gasped in reaction as the half-set scabs at knees and elbows were pulled and contracted. Gravely my father turned me to face his lamp, and cursed faintly upon a fierce indrawn breath. Without another word I was swung into his arms, and carried to the house, the oil lamp swinging from his hand. My brother Caley stood at the wide steps leading to the manor house portal; upon seeing me in Da's arms, he fired off two shots from his pistol, signaling the others that I had been found.

My father said, "Naturally she was where we should have looked first…with the broodmares, sound asleep."

Holding the tall entry doors open for my father, Caley looked at me, and sighed. "You look knackered, Ails." My father silenced further comment with a grunt.

He could not stop my mother from crying out at the sight of me, nor Beyvin from breaking into hysterical weeping. Wee Kenna and Grania joined in, infant Derry whining and thumbsucking peevishly at the general disquiet.

Their reactions distressed me and set my teeth to chattering. I did not enjoy being the center of such attention; furthermore I knew I would eventually be expected to explain my state. I did not wish to tell my parents of the nightmare scene at the parish schoolhouse; somehow, I could not believe but that I would be held responsible.

My mother and Beyvin spent an eternity attending to my wounds. I was uncomfortable with my mother's attention; our relationship had suffered in the last year, and she had patently pushed me away, furious with my unreasonable behavior in defying Father Graves. It was while Mam and Beyvin were attending to my shredded knees and elbows that a visitor was at the door. Within a few minutes my father came to tell my mother, "Sheriff McQuhae has been. It seems the priest has suffered a fit of some sort, and McQuhae wishes to speak to Aislyne about it."

"She'll not be talking to McQuhae tonight, surely?" As I was lying in my knickers and shift, Mam hastily grabbed my torn and bloodied pinny, ready to drop it over my shoulders.

"I told him there's time enough tomorrow." My father's eyes sought mine, full of questions, full of loving concern. I truly relaxed for the first time since he had found me in the mares' meadow. He would protect me…I was safe.

Though given a dose of Laudanum, I wept silently as Mam cleaned and stitched the deep gash in my chin. My knees and arms were scrubbed free of dirt and debris, rinsed with poppy tea, and covered with Vaseline and bandages. By the time I was given a cold cloth to hold to my swollen lips, I was feeling no pain, physical or emotional. In this happy state I was taken upstairs to my bed, Mam stripping me with brisk efficiency and Beyvin dropping my sleeping shift over my head. I was asleep before the covers were tucked beneath my chin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~

Sheriff Ian McQuhae was again at the house early the next afternoon, and for nearly an hour he and Da sat in the study talking, voices low. I had by then told my parents all that had happened at the parish schoolhouse, and I assume my father related that to the sheriff. Nonetheless, I was eventually called into my father's study to give my account, doing so whilst struggling with the newly-familiar block to my breathing. Eventually I had to stop, gasping helplessly, and my father swept me into his arms and held me until my wheezing quieted. "You are safe now, I promise, wee P_ollairean_".

"She's frightened near to death, McQuhae. Perhaps you should just ask her the pertinent questions, and 'foreby the rest." My father's hand swept back the hair from my icy cold face, his eyes full of concern.

"Very well, Butler." Sheriff McQuhae leaned to me, his eyes kind. "Lass, you needn't do more than give me 'yes' or 'no'."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~

They came for me two days later…

Kavenaugh raced in from the hayfield, his boots profanely loud upon the elegant marble tiles of the foyer entry. "Da! DA!"

At this moment, Beyvin was gamely attempting to change the bandage upon my chin, and both of us were in frustrated tears, as it had stuck badly, despite Cheesebourgh's magic jelly. At the sound of Kavenaugh so egregiously breaking my mother's golden rule of '_no yelling in the house'_, whilst simultaneously abusing her beloved marble floors with his manure stained boots, both of us were out the bedroom door and creeping down the hall to stand at the top of the steps.

My father met my brother before the wide stairway; Kavenaugh gave a glance up and winced upon seeing me, standing upon the top step. Speaking low, he grabbed my father's arm and headed for the estate office.

Both reappeared moments later; my father pointed a finger at me and growled, "Beyvin, take your sister to your room and _keep her there_." Turning to Kavenaugh, he said, "Your brothers are in the kitchen." Both headed for the rear of the house.

I spun away from my poor sister, and sprinted for the second floor washroom, throwing the iron latch on the door behind me. Despite Bey's threatening whispers through the door, I sat mute, ear pressed to the square iron grating in the wooden floor, listening to the voices in the kitchen coming up through the vent. This was a secret I did not share with _anyone_…I could eavesdrop on a few of the rooms in the house by listening at the appropriate vents on the second floor. Compunction kept me from abusing this gift; nonetheless, several times I found the transgression necessary that I might keep up with my mother's intentions toward her troublesome second daughter.

Voice low, my father ordered Caley and Rogan to fetch and load their bird guns from the estate office, and sent them to guard the back grounds and barns. Tiarnan and Kavenaugh would stand at the front of the manor house with Da, armed with hunting rifles. There was trouble coming up the road.

_The priest…it had to be the priest, come to take me back with him! _

Suddenly I felt no security within my parent's house…not after being cornered at the school. Shucking out of my 'pinny, I dressed in the baggy breeches and shirt kept stashed behind the quilts atop the cabinets. Twisting my hair atop my head, I stuffed it into a tight-fitting skally, and tying the shoestrings together, looped my shoes about my shoulder; I was much more surefooted in stocking feet.

The small window set high in the wall behind the bathing tub opened easily from frequent use and judicious oiling. This was my usual egress during fair-weather evenings, offering a short drop to the wellhouse roof, located directly below the washroom window on the west side of the house. The pain of bending at knees and elbows barely registered until one scabby knee broke open when scraped upon the wellhouse's rough slate roof. Shoving feet into shoes, I jumped to the ground, and staying low, crept along the side of the house, staying behind the dense privet hedge that closely skirted the house's foundation, front and sides. There was a snug, wee hollow located halfway between the wide entry and the right front corner of the house; I carefully settled myself there, having an excellent view of the front drive and porch.

Tiarnan and Kavenaugh took up positions at either side of the wide front portal, each holding a carbine; Da paced before the house, his Colt revolver holstered upon his hip, his Drayse breechloader at his shoulder. Both of the multi-wicked oil lamps at either side of the wide entry were brightly lit, casting a clear pool of light halfway across the front drive.

Soon the flash of bobbing torch fire was visible coming up the long carriage drive to the manor house, an indeterminate group of men and horses surrounding a small wagon. I watched feverishly for Father Graves' stooped figure, stomach churning my supper into a threatening knot in my throat. By the time the group reached the circled driveway before the house, the late spring evening was turning cold, leaving me shivering where I hid amidst the privet hedge.

Old Norman Graybeal sat in the small pony cart, his lumpish son, Keith balanced precariously next to him on the short seat. Riding behind them were several men from the parish, among them Ian McQuhae.

McQuhae was the first to speak. Dismounting to stand between my father and the wagon, he said, "Evening Butler." His voice was mild, but he carried a pistol carelessly shoved into his vest.

My father walked to the Sheriff, greeting him carefully. "Evening McQuhae. I'm surprised to see you with this rabble."

McQuhae's affable expression never changed, and at Graybeal's growl at the world 'rabble' he held out a hand to hush him, saying, "I do not subscribe to anything Norman Graybeal has to say, Butler. I only came to insure nobody did anything foolish."

Impatient, Norman Graybeal yelled, 'We've come for the witch! Your daughter's done enough harm in this parish, and we mean to punish her for it!"

My father took a menacing step towards the cart, growling, "I ken that you are calling my daughter a witch, Graybeal, and I find that very alarming. There is no such thing, as any educated man would know." Da spat to the side, adding, "A' course, I did say 'educated'."

Old Graybeal stood unsteadily from the narrow seat, shouting invective, and for a moment, I could only wish that he would pitch off onto his head. Instead, Keith pulled him back to the seat, but several of the men standing behind began moving their horses forward, to argue with my father. Finally McQuhae was able to bring silence by pulling and pointing his pistol skyward; he stated mildly, "You do yourself no good by insulting these men, Butler. They feel your daughter caused needless harm to Graybeal's youngest son, and may well have murdered Father Graves. You must tell them exactly what you told me regarding your daughter's actions on that day."

I felt a chill run down my spine, wondering how I had injured Devin…much less 'murdered' the priest.

My father shook his head. "As I told you…Ails come home with knees and elbows bloody raw, her chin laid open and teeth near pushed through her lip. I asked her what had happened, and she told me this: The priest came to her classroom, demanding everyone but she leave. This is after I plainly told the man he was NOT to speak to my daughter! He tried to corner her, and come at her with his cane raised. She ran. I'll wager Sheriff McQuhae told you all that Sister Boniface witnessed to this."

He pointed his finger at Graybeal, saying, "It was your boy who tripped Aislyne Mharie at the door; Devin then grabbed her, attempting to rip her dress off her back by the looks of her clothes. She had to kick him off her."

The sheriff turned to Graybeal, asking, "Is that not exactly as your boy told me…all but tearing her clothing off, of course."

Graybeal glared fiercely at McQuhae, and shouted. "She broke his leg! Done it so badly he'll be laid up for most of the summer! I got one worthless, lazy son to help me with the sheep, and me with a bad back, so how am I to go on without the boy?"

McQuhae made a face, and looked back to my father. "What does she say happened to Father Graves?"

My father's eyebrow raised. "What did she to him? I believe the question is what the man was going to do to her! She says the priest came to the schoolroom in a rage, attacked Sister Boniface and attempted to corner her."

McQuhae nodded, gazing intently at my father, then said, "Father Graves has had another seizure and is near death, Butler. There are many who believe it is the result of…"

_"It is the Devil's work, and well you know it!" _Graybeal again pushed himself up off the cart seat, his fist pumping the air. The men standing about the cart sounded off in agreement, as Graybeal ranted on. "She witched him! She's done it 'afore, but this time he's done!"

Keith grabbed at his father's pants, holding onto him, as the man was again near to falling off in his manic ranting.

My brothers stepped closer, faces hard, showing their contempt for the sheepman's foolishness. Tiarnan swung the rifle down from his shoulder, placing his hand closer to the trigger. Even the sheriff looked startled when my father did the same.

Grimacing at the now panting Graybeal, my father spat, "If that's all you have to say, I'll ask you to leave. My daughter is no less a Christian than yon drunken idiot sitting next to his father there. She has done nothing to any of you, or Father Graves." Da pointed resolutely at Old Graybeal. "I'll have no truck with men who believe in superstitious nonsense. Get off my land!"

Speaking to McQuhae, my father pointed to the Graybeals, then swept his finger through the men standing around them. "Make note of the fools who have come here to do a young child harm through their ignorance and superstition. I have no doubt they will make trouble again." Looking the Sheriff in the eye, he said, "When they do, I'll not bother you, McQuhae. My boys and I will take care of our own."

As the pony leaned into the traces to pull the cart around, my father stayed, unmoving before the house, rifle across his arms. He stood there until the torches had shown the cart at the turn onto the road to town.

"Return the rifles to the estate office, boys, and call in your brothers. You did well. Just keep your wits about you when you go to town." Tiarnan and Kavenaugh walked around to the side of the manor house, leaving my father standing alone, silent. With a start I heard him say, "Ails, its not right you hide amongst the bushes like a chicken thief. Get thee back to your room before your mother goes up looking for you."

I shot from my nest within the privet, and made for the wellhouse. Using a keg set upon the wellhouse roof as a step up to the second story window, I kicked it away once I was half through. It took me but a few minutes to wash the dust from my face and arms, and change my clothing.

Beyvin still sat at the other side of the washroom door, making an ugly face when I finally unlocked it. Resentfully she snapped, "Da will skive me if he finds I never kept you away!"

I gave her a awkward hug, saying, "So don't tell 'im. I certainly shan't!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It did not, of course, end there.

We were fairly self-sufficient on the home farm, growing a great deal of our own food. There were always a few steers fattening, as well as pigs and a large flock of chickens and geese. We had two soft-eyed brown heifers from whose milk came our butter and cheese, and two gardens as well as the kitchen patch in the kaleyard. Nonetheless, staples such as flour, sugar, salt, fruit and savory vegetables were bought from local farmers.

We had a cook who made the noon and dinner meals, as well as two outside men who cared for the cattle, helped in the larger gardens and with the haying and general farm maintenance. Two young women came in twice a week to help my mother as well.

Father Theodu Graves died the day after the confrontation with the Graybeals. Our cook quit the next day, staying only long enough to request her due wages. Pointing at me where I sat eating my bread and bacon elevenses, Mrs. McNaughte forcefully told my mother, "I'll not work where there is such a one as her. I'll pray for you, Mrs. Butler." Nose up, Ella McNaughte walked through the house, leaving by the front door…an insult to my mother.

The maids never showed for their scheduled days; one of the outside men quit after receiving his wages for the week. The other told my father that his wife was demanding he do the same, but as he was too lame to tote grain at the mill and too old to run a hammer or shovel gravel on the railroad crews, working for us was the only way he could afford to eat.

I did not learn all this by setting ear to floor grate, but while hiding outside the kaleyard to avoid being sent back to iron sheets or mangle towels. I had spent the entire morning in the steamy wash house, and this being my second day in, I was sick of it; if she wished to punish me, I much preferred my mother beat me with a switch. My arms were red to my already scabby, itchy elbows from immersion in scalding water and scrubbing with the lye soap made my hands raw. Today I was near to weeping with a nagging backache, no doubt caused by cranking the mangle for hours the afternoon before.

My aching shoulders leaned against the cool stone of the wall, I closed my eyes, hoping to catch a brief nap…only to hear Mam's voice at the scullery door right at the opposite side of the wall behind me. Horror doubled, I heard Da answer her. Both now standing at the scullery door, they discussed the current crop of troubles; I was trapped, no way to move away without being seen over the wall.

Having recited a litany of problems, Mam finally declared, "I cannot keep up with all that needs done without some help in, Connor. Yet no one in town will come, and that includes the _drùth_ and _dràichd_ from the rail laborers' camp." (sluts and slatterns)

His voice soothing, Da said, "Now, Bridget…give this all some time to blow by. Ella McNaughte is probably running her tongue betimes, stirring up trouble. I never cared for the _arpag_, nor her cooking. In a week's time I'll put up adverts at the public hall, and I have no doubt we'll soon have a cook. We can pay well and everyone knows we're openhanded with milk and meat, and that's not to be sniffed at these days. Same for house help."

"And what about the church…shall we put up cards looking for _that _too?" My mother's voice became brittle, her mood growing more agitated. When my father had nothing to say, she continued. "I have been a member of this parish my entire life, Connor. I was baptized there! I will not give up Saint Doimthech!"

"Bridget, I cannot say anything that will not upset you, lass. You know how I have felt about yon kirk and the priest."

"And you will hush about it. You have said too much before my mother already…"

"I will then, but only to keep the peace in my house." My father's words were conciliatory, but his tone was not.

Mam's next words made the breath catch in my throat: "And what of Aislyne Mharie? What are we to do with a daughter who faces censure and possible excommunication from the Church?"

I could hear my father's boots as he stepped from the slated-tiled scullery to take a slow turn in the kaleyard. Voice low, he said, "They cannot do it…there is no way she had aught to do with the priest's death, Bridget."

"Connor…what if they do? Aislyne has been athwart Father Graves for so long. There is her refusal to take confession from him, and her disrespectful behavior in school. Is this not 'ungodly' behavior?"

I jumped at the sound of my father's near-shout of anger; "_And the priest's behavior was godly? __A shìorraidh_!…" The sound of the subsequent silence was near as frightening as my father's outburst. After a moment and a deep breath, he continued in calmer tones, "Father Graves threatened Aislyne…set after her with his cane. And what of Sister Boniface…the priest attacked her also, shoving her down so violently that she has a broken wrist!"

Angry now, my mother snapped, "Father Graves was just a man, Connor. You and I both know Aislyne could try a saint."

"Bridget…" Whatever my father thought to say, he left unspoken. After a moment's hesitation, he said, "Lets not argue. She is our daughter, and we must protect her."

I shrank against the wall as I heard Mam leave the scullery, moving to join my father in the kaleyard. "We must think of _all_ of our children, _a luaidh_. We have three more girls who will need an education…plus this wee bittie in my belly." For several moments they stood, silent and unmoving. Finally, my father spoke, a mere whisper. "Give this time, Bridget. God always prevails."

My parents walked together back into the house, leaving me to my own thoughts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In a display of gritty fortitude, my mother continued her twice weekly pilgrimage to Ballinhassig Town to Saint Doimthech's for communion with her God. There being no celebrant to give the mass, Saint Doimthech's had become the haunt of the Sisters of Mercy and the infrequent silent worshipers such as my mother. On Wednesdays Granny Muldoon rode along with Mam in the cart as several of the older members of the church gathered in the parish hall to gossip and eat an early supper together.

It was at dinner one evening that Mam casually mentioned that she had lit a candle for Father Graves, and prayed for the salvation of his soul. "I could do no less, could I?" Her eyes seemed to linger just a bit upon my face before moving on; my skin grew cold, feeling my mother's unspoken condemnation.

Granny's eyes were instantly fierce upon my face. "Its not him that needs salvation, daughter, and well you know it."

My father cast a quelling glare at Granny. "You will not talk so at my table, Mother Muldoon." He sent a troubled look to my mother, eyes questioning.

I adhered my full attention to my plate, concentrating on getting as many peas on my fork as possible. Tiarnan mentioned that Gaiety's newest foal was struggling to nurse, and soon he, Caley and my father were talking over the merits of the current crop of babies, comparing notes. "Your May Queen is due to foal very soon, Ails. We'll need to keep a sharp eye on her."

Leaning forward with excitement, I opened my mouth to comment, only to hear Mam say quite forcefully, "She's no time for such foolishness, Connor. I need her here in the house, not out loitering in the barn or fields after a horse!"

My father again gave my mother a worried look. Pointedly he asked, "Bridget, are you feeling well?"

Heartsick at the idea May Queen might foal without me there to greet her newest foal, I lost all interest in my dinner. After chasing bits of brisket about my plate for several minutes, I looked at my father, saying. "May I be excused?"

Granny Muldoon grunted, her expression malevolent; my father silenced her with a glare. My mother never looked up.

"Go. Check on Gaiety's foal to see if he is nursing well. I'll be out in a few minutes, _Pollairean_."

Dabbing my still-tender mouth with the serviette, I thanked my father, and carefully walked from the room, the feel of less-than-loving eyes burning hard upon my back. Needing first to change my clothing, I headed for my room, the sound of Granny Muldoon's low-voiced imprecations thankfully incoherent behind me. I had no more than reached the first landing than my father's voice erupted from the dining room.

"You will shut your gob Mother Muldoon …Ails had naught to do with the man's affliction. Do you not remember…he came after her!"

Not to be outdone, Granny raised her voice into a near shriek. "You are a blind man, Butler! She done this to the Father! She witched him…struck him 'doon. This is no child, this is an _olc spiorad…_

Granny got no further. I heard my father's roar of range, and a great shuffling and stomping. I ran up the remaining stairs to cower upon the top landing as my father's boots thundered along the wide servant's hall to the kitchen, wherein with a crack of his boot against the scullery door, he headed for the kaleyard. The entire time, Granny Muldoon screeched like a shecat, and my mother's voice was raised in alarm, demanding he 'put her down!'

Their voices now distant, my father's still came clear: "You will not be in my house, do you talk like that about my daughter! Do you hear me, woman?"

Undaunted, Granny's voice was shrill. "You are wrong, you _amaideach asal!_ She has blinded you, the lot of you! And you'll not talk to me, so…not and live in this parish. MY parish, you godless _draoi_."

I heard my father's boots retreat from the kitchen door, moving back across the house.

Once again my parents' voices were unavoidably audible at the foot of the stairs. "I'll not have her here, Bridget. She's a curse I have lived with long enough…"

My mother's voice was hard. "If you throw my mother out, then I go with her Connor. I swear it."

There was silence, and my father's voice, strained and hard, saying, "So be it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Granny Muldoon moved in with old Berthia O'Dwyer in Ballinhassig Town, taking nothing but her crate of black clothing and worn leather bible. The mood within the Butler house lifted immediately, despite the open coolness between my parents. The fact that Mam had not actually abandoned us for her mean-spirited mother did much to lift the spirits of the Butler offspring.

In July my mother gave birth to a baby boy; no midwife being available, my father helped deliver his son. Quinn was exactly as every other male Butler; large, dark, and noisy. Although the labor and delivery were uneventful, for months afterwards, Mam was unwilling to do more than care for her newest son, staying in her rooms or sitting in the kaleyard on fair afternoons.

Beyvin was 15; I was 3 months shy of my 12th birthday. Both of us became responsible for the smooth running of our home.

I fell upon my daily duties with fervor, seeking absolution by way of hard work. Beyvin chose the kitchen and gardens, and I labored from sun up to long after sundown, insuring beds were made, rooms dusted and swept, fireplaces set, and laundry done. Caley and Rogan helped with the heavy lifting, but they were frequently occupied with work outside, caring for livestock and working the fields.

Most nights I slept like one dead, remembering nothing but the comfort of laying my sore, tired body down. It was a trial to awaken when Beyvin pulled me from beneath the covers at 5 o'clock. By the end of summer both of us looked like grim-faced old women, work-thin and pale from lack of sunlight and fresh air.

Sometimes I awoke in the middle of the night to hear Beyvin crying.

Guilt and fear kept me from doing naught but lying still until she finally slept.

I turned 12 years that fall, something that seemed to slip by without note, falling as it did during an increasingly difficult time. By then it had become abundantly clear the Butler family and Ballinhassig Farm were under siege by the faithful of Saint Doimthech Parish. Shops and suppliers from the area refused Ballinhassig accounts; there was no buying staples at O'Grady's Mercantile, nor hardware at the Farm Emporium in Ballenhassig Town. Deliveries of the grain and salt for the livestock stopped, Old 'Salty' Duggan having cut the farm off of his route.

No woman within 50 miles would take the job of cook, good wages or no, and the last outside man quit after months of abuse by his neighbors. The residents of Saint Doimthech Parish made it plain no one would have anything to do with Ballinhassig Farm as long as it was occupied by the murdering witch, Aislyne Mharie Butler.

My father also became an increasingly frequent target of the vitriol spread by the parish gossips, the source unquestionably Arvia Muldoon. Much of it is not repeatable, being of the most vile slander possible. The love of his horses, defense of his daughter, and his lack of active participation in the Catholic mass were all meat for the gossip gristmill.

My home had become a war zone, my parents obviously asunder, my father sleeping over the carriage house or in the estate office most nights. My mother remained sequestered save those days she went to Ballinhassig Town to church and to visit her mother.

In November Beyvin very quietly married the second son of a minor Irish peer. Perrin Van Cliffe was a frequent visitor to Ballinhassig, whose love of horseflesh extended only to the money that could be won betting upon flat racing and steeple chasing. My eldest brothers liked him well enough to drink with him, and Van Cliffe's contacts with Ireland's horse-mad privileged society was a welcome bonus. Perrin's stated intention was to win enough money betting on horses to travel the Continent betting on horses. I did not care for Perrin Van Cliffe at all.

Whatever Van Cliffe's intentions had been in seducing a 15 year old Beyvin, the resulting child in her belly meant but one outcome to my brothers: Van Cliffe married her immediately. My father and Tiernan traveled to Cork with Beyvin and a subdued, puffy-faced Van Cliffe to see the marriage made official. The Van Cliffes being Prostestant, it was a very small ceremony in St. Paul's Church, presided by a vicar of the Church of Ireland. Baron Van Cliffe and the heir, Perrin's brother Nathaniel, attended as well despite the short notice. It was there revealed the Barony of Van Cliffe was destitute and entailed to the hilt, and Beyvin should expect to be little more than an unpaid servant at her new home.

My father returned to Ballinhassig Farm tired and depressed, without his eldest daughter.

That night I cried myself to sleep, in bed alone for the first time in memory. My mother had cleaned the room of all traces of Beyvin, packing her clothing and trinkets in a large chest to be carted to her husband's home. She then lit the fireplace in the parlor, demanding I add more wood to insure a roaring blaze. As I watched, horrified, she threw all of Beyvin's religious certificates, her bible, her rosary into the center of the fire.

"I have lost both of my eldest daughters to the devil, it seems."

Surprised at my mother's words I turned wide-eyed to stare at her. She ignored me, never bothering to glance my way, as if she spoke to herself…as if I were invisible.

In the same quiet voice she continued. "One lost to the church through marriage to a heretic, and one to the heretic who fathered her."

She rose and left the room, leaving me staring into the fire, sick to my very bones.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh, go ahead and tell me what you think...you know you wanna!


	59. Chapter Fifty Eight

**FIY: **No, this won't be a 'tragedy. These two just have a VERY steep learning curve (smile).

**I actually have a Christmas story already written** (was 2 years ago, anyway) with both my main characters in it, so…yeah. **They must go on!**

Because EVERYTHING is so 'tight' in this part of the tale, I've had to write 3 chapters all at once. Hence…I post two (and that's almost 12K words!), so please don't think I'm slacking.

**AND,** I am now Grandma to a glorious baby girl. She is already tall enough to start grade school (10 pounds, 22 inches ALL legs), and her parents are over the moon with happiness.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

**Chapter Fifty Eight**

What had seemed fairly effortless despite the darkness and unfamiliarity going in had become a fearful maze of low-hanging branches, thorny catch-cans and randomly intersecting paths coming out. I became lost several times, circling back to the same bit of high stone wall at least twice. It did not help that my thoughts were so engaged that time had no meaning until I stepped past the enclosing border of the wild garden. I was chagrined to note I had lost a slipper and was bleeding from that foot.

It was much later than I thought; a low-hanging bank of angry, bruised clouds moving in from the east heralded a change in the weather as well as the imminent appearance of the morning sun above the dense treeline. Reminded that _I only have today_, I hurried across the back lawn and mounted the steps to the terrace.

Lights glowed behind the library doors, as well as in several second story windows including my own; I had been missed. I straightened the grubby peignoir, folding it tightly about me, and marched resolutely to the same library door from which I'd exited. Oliva sat upon a low-backed chair by the fire, and seeing me, she stood and waited as I slipped through and closed the French door behind me.

Forestalling any uncomfortable questions or observations, I immediately said, "Olivia, I have a great favor to ask of you."

Olivia's expression slipped into sour amusement. "If it is to keep your absence from your sister, it is too late."

"No, no, I… What?" Distracted, I rubbed my aching forehead. "Oh…that is too bad of you. No doubt she is beside herself."

The Countess was not very apologetic. "I _had_ no choice, Aislyne. When Henri reported you missing from your room, I thought _perhaps_ you had gone to your sister. I sent a message asking if you were there…"

"_Aislyne! Oh my dear_!" Looking as if she were ready to faint, Beyvin swept in from the hall and fell upon me, tears and cries of dismay filling my left ear. "_Where_ have you been…what have you been doing! _Look at you!_ You look…_terrible_!" Looking at Olivia over my sister's shoulder, I pondered a likely explanation for my appearance. Holding me at arm's length, Beyvin demanded, "_Where have you been_?"

I opened my mouth, only to hear Olivia smoothly interject, "_Poor_ Aislyne fell victim to our wilderness in the back garden."

I blinked in surprise, belatedly realizing my complicity was expected. "I…I thought to enjoy a bit of fresh air and moonlight. I had no idea it would be so difficult to find my way out." I could not put a lot of enthusiasm into the lie, but it was not necessary. Beyvin seized upon the story without question.

"_Thank heavens_ you are safe! _Why_ must you always test fate, Ails! Someday you will _not_ be so lucky." Laying one hand upon her forehead, Beyvin squeaked, "There is _blood_ on your wrapper."

Quickly I assured my sister, "I broke open a cut on my knee. Other than that, I have a few scratches and bumps, certainly nothing beyond what I already have. Beyvin...please excuse me but I most ardently desire the warmth of my bed. I am cold and so very tired." Turning to look to the Countess, I asked, "Is there some way of getting to my room that doesn't require using the front stairway?"

Olivia turned to Beyvin, saying, "Go back to your lodgings and soothe your unhappy spouse. I will find Henri and insure our adventurous Aislyne has a bath and breakfast, and is put to bed."

Beyvin nodded, then turned to me, saying, "What would we do without Olivia, Ails? I know I can always count on her." Beyvin hugged the flushed subject of her admiration, bussing her noisily upon the cheek. "I will come back this afternoon. I promised Van Cliffe I would play hostess to the wives of his new investment club partners. Yes, Ails…we now are part owners of a silk shop, can you imagine?" Chin high, Beyvin practically stood on tiptoe to look me in the eye. "But I will slip away as soon as I can, so expect me." I was given another kiss, and then Beyvin flounced out of the library.

Once she was well away, I turned to the Countess. "Thank you. I cannot stand that I trouble her so much."

"Then you must try not to do so…_quite_ so much." Taking my arm, Olivia crossed the library to a door set nearly invisibly in a corner. Behind it were narrow stairs leading to the second floor. We met Henri in the hall before my room, where Olivia requested a bath drawn and breakfast delivered to my room thereafter. "We will be in Aislyne's room; please knock when her bath is ready."

If I appeared less than enthusiastic to tête à tête with the Countess, Olivia gave it no mind, making herself comfortable in the small upholstered chair, leaving me either the bed or the bench before the dressing table. I sat upon the bench, and turning to the Countess, held up my hands. "No doubt you are wondering…"

Making an impatient gesture, she interrupted me. "You started to ask me something in the library…'a great favor' I believe you said."

"Oh. Well…yes. I need a message delivered to the gentleman who was here to see me yesterday. Inspector Kahn…"

"I know Inspector Kahn, though not _well_…" The Countess' playful emphasis on the last word made her meaning very clear. "After you have eaten and rested we can certainly…"

I shook my head, saying, "No! I will write out the message now, if I might have paper and pen. I need to talk to Inspector Kahn immediately."

Olivia shot me an arch look. "The man is probably still in his _bed_, Aislyne."

"Good. I can be assured he will be there to receive it. And Olivia…I…I need something else." I took a deep breath and looked at her as directly as possible. "I need a pistol."

She did no more than blink, saying, "I will _no_t be party to you shooting Nadir Kahn."

I shook my head. "I have no intention of shooting Nadir Kahn. The pistol is for self defense. I will be going out as soon as Inspector Kahn tells me what I need to know."

"Hmmmm." Tipping her head in frank assessment of my clothing, hair and face, Olivia finally asked, "What does this have to do with the man you met in the garden?"

Naturally, I prevaricated, saying, "Your 'wilderness' is not my idea of an ideal trysting place." I felt my face finally begin to feel some warmth.

"_Why_ did you go out if not to meet with someone?"

I rubbed my forehead with one hand, thinking furiously. "I heard music, and it came from the back of that…wilderness. I never meant to go very far into the trees."

"And _who_…"

I snapped, "Does there have to have been anyone?" I was growing more uncomfortable by the moment, both from the questioning, and a growing sense of impatience.

The Countess clasped her hands upon her knees, and leaning forward, said, "I am the very _last_ person to make moral judgments, Aislyne. Please _remember_ that. I am also…_I hope_…your friend. However, you _cannot _hide the fact that you have spent time with a gentleman, engaged in physically intimate activity."

Now feeling entirely _too_ warm, I met Olivia's gaze without falter, stubbornly refusing to be _ashamed_. "Why are we discussing this?"

"Your naivety is monumental, Aislyne…and very telling. This is, I believe, your first _liaison passionnée_, yes_?_" Olivia's expression was serious; I looked very hard for hidden amusement. There was none.

I said nothing. Olivia nodded, and speaking very low, said, "Do you realize that… Is there a chance you may be in an _embarrassing condition_?"

I shot the Countess a stern look. "I am a nurse, Olivia, and I am well aware of how sex and reproduction work. I am not _enciente_."

Giving a single nod, the Countess clapped her hands upon her ruffle-bedecked knees. "I am _glad_ to hear it. It is a condition I have never experienced and _avoid_ most diligently. I have gathered an arsenal of esoteric and exotic pregnancy deterrence, and would be _happy_ to share if you feel it might become necessary." Rising from the chair, she added, "I will fetch pen and paper from my room. Write your note and it will be taken to Inspector Kahn."

My note to Nadir Kahn was brief, requesting he 'come _immediately_ concerning the item we discussed at length at his last visit'. I figured no one would be the wiser if they did read the message. I folded it into a packet, and gave it to the Countess. "Mr. Kahn is staying at Le Corbusier on St. Jean Avenue, Room 410. I would like this delivered personally, to Mr. Kahn's hand."

Henri appeared at the door. "Bath is ready, then, miss."

Olivia tapped the note upon her thumb. "Eleanor has a veritable _armory_ of sidearms. I'll ask her to show you after you have had breakfast."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nadir Kahn opened one eye. "If you must interrupt my sleep, please have the courtesy to at least provide coffee."

The dark figure sitting in the far corner of his bedroom was unimpressed with Kahn's attempt at humor. Waving one hand, he growled, "Sleep. I did not come here to _inconvenience_ you." His voice was low…the acerbic attitude hollow.

With a groan, Nadir pushed off his blankets and sat up to look at his visitor. Thought his face was shadowed, Kahn noted the man was not in disguise, and wearing unremarkable street clothes, albeit showing signs of hard use.

Nadir Kahn donned his robe and slippers, straightened the bed and set his Gladstone upon a chair. Pulling out neatly paired socks, he cast a look at his silent visitor. "I must dress and fetch coffee. Stay here."

Erik raised his head. "Where would I go, Daroga?"

Besides requesting an entire carafe of black coffee, and breakfast tray for himself, Kahn requested breakfast be delivered to the room across the hall where Anna and Emanuel Gadreau recovered from their run-in with Hashim. He usually sat with Emanuel for an hour in the morning, allowing the man to talk while he made comforting noises; lately both Gadreaus would fall to bickering over their morning tea, Anna having decided she did not wish to continue to Italy, Emanual still fixated upon doing so. Kahn felt relief he could leave them to their domestic discord this morning. He was especially unwilling to share with them quite yet that apparently _no one_ would be going to Italy.

Nadir met the maid carrying his coffee and breakfast at his door, and taking the tray from her hands, requested she leave extra towels outside the door, and directed he not be disturbed further that day. He found Erik still in the chair, attitude unchanged.

For several long moments both men remained silent as Kahn poured coffee into two large cups, and dosed his well with cream and honey. He turned to Erik, and handed him the cup of black coffee. Then he spoke.

"Erik, I am old, and perhaps my vanity will be my ultimate undoing. I flatter myself in thinking you have come here seeking comfort…or perhaps advice?"

The preternaturally bright gleam of Erik's eyes within his shadowed face served to remind Kahn of the man's unsteady temperament; Nadir was aware he now stepped in heavily guarded territory. _Erik asked for help…you did not offer it._

Nonetheless, Kahn set the plate containing his breakfast at Erik's elbow, and said, "You might tell me what is troubling you, Erik."

After several minutes wherein he sat with his hands wrapped about the coffee cup, Erik began to speak, voice low.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bath and breakfast out of the way, I dressed in a morning gown, brushed and dressed my hair after attending to the wound in my scalp. Once Henri had left, I calmly walked to the dressing room and retrieved my stash personal items wrapped in the silk lining of my tweed coat. It was exactly where I had put it, buried beneath towels, untouched.

I put it beneath a tangle of hair combs and ribbons in the dresser in my room. I have no idea why I thought to move it _now_…there was nothing among the myriad items that would serve my purpose. Jumping up from the bench and slamming the drawer I moved to look out my bedroom windows. The overcast sky sent a diffused light over the 'tanglewood' at the back of Grantham house, illuminating the wild vegetation to the color of Erik's eyes. Stricken, I closed myself to the memory of his taste, the feel of his skin.

I turned away, to pace across the room, aware that only frenetic activity would serve to hold my desperate thoughts at bay…but it would never stop the increasing fear of what I meant to do.

Thankfully, Eleanor popped through the door, and motioned that I was to follow her, leading me to the small sitting room adjacent to her bedroom. The sitting room held several glass-fronted cabinets, as well as two wide chests. French and British rifles and bird guns were racked in display in the cabinets, every one a work of art. In one cabinet, resting among the glossy wood-stocked examples of the modern rifled long-barreled firearms was a Prussian Dreyse breechloader rifle…exactly like the one my father had owned in Ireland.

I had little experience with the older muzzleloaders as my father carried pistols and therefore taught his children on them. However, once in London, breech-loaded rifles were readily available, and upon receiving a fine Martini-Henry for my 15th birthday, Rogan gave me full instruction in its use. I had become quite good with it, and subsequently owned several varieties of rifles throughout my years as a member of the WFA.

It was a pistol I needed now, however, and when I reiterated this to Eleanor, she began opening shallow drawers in the chests. I was immediately in awe of her collection; many were superlative examples of the gunsmith's art and craft, carved and inscribed, wrapped in precious metals and of configurations both strange and familiar. As we sorted through the drawers, however, we eventually arrived at those more utilitarian in nature. Eleanor laid out several for me to consider, all of which were small double action revolvers with short barrels. I eventually chose a Colt .32 caliber rim-fire revolver because of its size and weight.

Dressed in snugly tailored buckskin breeches, a fitted dark blue blouse, tall, gleaming boots, and her hair in the tousled 'titus' style so popular with the younger men, Eleanor cut an elegant figure, if somewhat jarring to one's native notions of feminine beauty. She picked up a nicely appointed Lefaucheux pinfire revolver and spun the cylinder, saying, "Your sister says you are quite skilled with firearms…that you have won many competitions."

I smiled and nodded stiffly, thinking that my sister talked far too much.

Eyeing me carefully, she asked, "Have you ever had to…ahhhh…shoot a person? Self defense, of course. But…?"

A trifle discomfited by her question, I carefully inspected the small Colt, cleared the cylinder and tested the trigger pull. "No…no, I have not." I wondered what had prompted such a question.

"But that is why you need a pistol now…to shoot this man who pursues you and your…patient."

I checked the sights, the feel in my hand… Obviously Olivia liked to gossip about me also. "I hope only to speak with him…to intercede for Monsieur Bouchard's life. I have no interest in shooting anyone."

"Oh. Of course." Eleanor made a strange face, almost as if she were disappointed, and laid the Lefaucheux carefully in its drawer. "Have you given thought to where you will hide this pistol…or will you carry it in plain sight?"

Struck by the question, I considered the small pistol in my hand. "Why…I haven't given it much thought at all. I generally carried a holster strapped to my hip under my skirts…but it is awkward at best."

Eleanor opened a cabinet and laid out a small holster and a handful of brass-cased shells for the Colt. "I believe I know exactly where you should hide your pistol. Let us go talk to Henri."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"And so…I agreed to do nothing today. Aislyne begged this of me. How could I refuse her, having taken such advantage of her." Erik rubbed briskly at his face. "Daroga, I swear to you, I had no intention of…that she would be…"

Nadir Kahn had listened silently, wearing the expected disapproving scowl as Erik stumbled through the tale of his long-overdue passage into true manhood. It was probably reasonable that he should feel some anger at the couple's reckless behavior at such a time. However, at the moment Kahn was struggling to conceal amusement at Erik's profound awe of what few men and too many women took for granted.

"Daroga! You _cannot imagine_…"

"Erik! Please…my memory is excellent."

The boy shot a vaguely doubtful look his way, then dropped his head onto the back of the chair, groaning, "I felt helpless…and she was so beautiful…" Erik trailed off into a state of deepest introspection, leaving Nadir Kahn fight the urge to laugh outright.

"Perhaps it is fitting that you forego taking a life at her request on the very day you chose to...ah…compromise the woman you profess to love."

Nadir quickly learned this was the wrong tact to take; Erik cast himself from the chair and rounded upon him, hand over his right cheek. "I had no intention of compromising her! I thought _only_ to play my music for her. I knew she would understand that…the language of music." Erik closed his eyes. "I wished only to say goodbye…"

"And why must you say goodbye?"

Erik sighed heavily, falling back into the chair. "I can see only one way to kill Hashim, Daroga. It leaves me an easy target for his armed men, however." Erik seemed to deflate, sinking into the chair. "I am not well, Daroga. I am weak, and my chest hurts when I overexert myself." Erik shrugged. "I do not move as fast, nor as quietly as I once did. Even the element of surprise will not protect me."

Nadir Kahn studied the younger man's appearance, noting new hollows and angles. It did not help that the skin dye was fading, leaving Erik looking hollow-eyed, his skin sallow and unnaturally mottled. He appeared exactly as once advertised: a walking corpse…a circumstance that alarmed Kahn, as he was unsure it was merely the fading skin color.

"The secrets to good health and stamina are sleep and food. I wager you have not eaten since I saw you in the Arab Quarter two mornings past, and I know you have not slept, Erik. That you feel unwell is no surprise, considering you look worse now than you did the day we freed you from the Rois."

Pointing abruptly to the plateful of food at Erik's elbow, Kahn commanded, "Eat!"

For several seconds there was silence as Kahn and his guest stared at one another; Kahn did not look away from the icy green eyes growing wide with surprise…and something else: acknowledgement. Erik then nodded, and said, "Things have changed, have they not Daroga? I have changed; it is as if I am cut free of a dark, malevolent anchor." Erik picked up the cold baguette, and slathered it with the preserves and honey, eating with appetite. Nadir refilled Erik's coffee cup then stepped out to retrieve the large towels left upon the tray table beside his door.

"Your luggage is there…I retrieved it soon after you and the Mademoiselle fled."

Erik's eyes swiveled toward the large portmanteau, several smaller leather cases leaned against it.

Nadir Kahn continued, saying, "You may bathe…I've secured towels for your use…and perhaps you might sleep for a bit. I have several appointments this morning, and then I am free. I have requested the maids insure I am not disturbed. Naturally, if anyone knocks, you should not answer the door."

Erik cast a look at the door, then shrugged. "There is another way to leave your room, Daroga. But I will throw the lock nonetheless."

Nadir Kahn cast his eyes about the small two-room suite. "I expected there would be. Erik…we will talk this afternoon. Do not leave."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eleanor slipped the Colt neatly inside the hidden holster, then guided my hand to it. "Absolutely undetectable, and really very easy access. I think given a few minutes practice you will find it perfect.

It was a most satisfactory solution to the problem of concealing the pistol. I could not help but give Henri a quick hug, causing the poor woman to nearly swallow the pins she had cached between her lips.

Snapping taut the flounce she was basting to the bottom hem, Henri pulled the pins from her mouth and growled, "Here now, none o' that. Stand still or I will be forced to jab you with one 'o these pins." Admiring the affect of the massed fabric bustle at my back, Henri said, "Hug Lady Nell. T'was her idea."

Eleanor held up a hand. "No display of affection for me, thank you. I merely remembered what Henri said about 'those damned things being useless for naught but hiding your gun', which was inspired, was it not Aislyne?"

I agreed…then cast a look at the clock on the dresser. Half-past 10…and the message had gone by way of the youngest footman before 8 o'clock. Making 'tcha tcha' noises at my obvious impatience, Henrie knotted and cut the thread, and smoothed the resulting length of skirt. "That should do it. You look very fine, Miss…very _haute couture_."

"Yes, very fine. Now…look here, _m'lady_." Eleanor brought forth another pistol, set in a small holster attached to a strange little harness. "Sit down and give me your right foot, Aislyne." Doing so, she then wrapped the harness about the ankle of my walking boot, with one strap going beneath the instep. Twice she wiggled the holster, tightening the straps more securely. Dropping my boot, she commanded, "Walk! See how it fits…you do not want it wobbling."

I strode briskly across the room, watching to see if the gun was visible when I did so, realizing it would be only if one expected to see it. Otherwise the holster blended quite well with the polished black boots I wore. "It seem very stable, Eleanor. But why _two_ pistols?"

Crossing her arms, Eleanor nodded with approval, then said, "My father taught me that 'one is none, and two is one.' You always carry a backup, Aislyne." She added, "My father and I shared a love of firearms, and he taught me how to use them. Many of those in my collection are originally from his collection. I kept the best and sold the rest." She grimaced, saying, "James Nassau plundered my father's estate pretty thoroughly, selling off everything but the clothes off our backs. Fortunately, my father had moved most of the collection to storage, of which only he and I had the direction and keys."

"Well…you need to keep the better of these two pistols. I cannot guarantee this…" and I displayed the one neatly harnessed to my right boot, "…will be returned if I am searched and it is found."

Eleanor leaned forward. "But you _want _this one…" pointing to my boot, "…exactly for that reason, Aislyne. If they search, you need only insure they find this. I am sure they will look no further…I ask you, how many people carry TWO pistols?"

"Eleanor, why would I want to provide a weapon to someone who might then decide to use it against me?"

"Because…" and reaching down, Eleanor neatly plucked the small pistol from my boot. "This is a cheap mass-produced American revolver…a 'red jacket'. Most knowledgeable folks call them 'suicide guns' because the damned things blow apart at the first shot…are more likely to kill the person holding it as the intended target."

I looked at the small revolver with a sharper eye, noting the shoddy, machining…the ill-fitting grips. The metal even looked cheap.

Eleanor popped the cylinder and invited me to look down the uneven barrel. "Which means YOU do not want to fire this pistol, Aislyne. It could take your hand off…or your face. I have loaded it with two standard shells…which will be more apt to blow the barrel than fire correctly."

She held the pistol out to me, and I took it gingerly in hand. "It is set on an empty chamber, yes?"

She nodded reassuringly, and I slipped it firmly back into the boot holster, snapping the retainer strap firmly in place. "This has been an educational morning, Eleanor. And I thank you…without hugs…but my sincere gratitude." I reached for the younger woman's hand, wherein she stood and embraced me.

"Olivia and I both quite like you Aislyne. But we have no idea how you could ever be meek and proper Beyvin's sister!"

I could not help but grin at Eleanor's apt description of Beyvin. "Perhaps I am punishment for some egregious behavior in her past life?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nadir Kahn spent the first hour of his morning kicking his heels outside the office of Chief Inspector Pinault, in the _Commissariat Lyon_, awaiting the man's arrival. It seemed the man did not leave for his office until well after 8 o'clock, and even then was known to stop at Chez Marie for a leisurely breakfast. Nadir was spared that, as Inspector Pinault arrived a quarter hour before 9. Finding Inspector Kahn waiting outside his door, the Chief Inspector was all that was kind, inviting him into his office, seating him in a well upholstered brocade chair, calling for tea and sweet biscuits.

Having by now spent far too much time in the Chief Inspector's company, Nadir Kahn did not waste his breath by reprimanding the fool on his responsibility as the head of the Lyon police. He sipped his weak tea and gently brought up the reason for his frequent visits: the case against Mademoiselle Aislyne Butler.

Pinault, however, was not interested changing his thinking regarding the murders committed one week ago in the de'Chagny railcar. The investigation was now a man…or rather _woman_-hunt for one middle-aged British spinster, their ONLY suspect for the crime.

Setting back in his chair, hands clasped somewhere about the last half-dozen biscuits he had inhaled, Pinault explained why the woman was guilty. Kahn listened to the man for nearly thirty minutes as he pontificated rather circuitously upon the contrived and circumstantial evidence that rendered Aislyne Butler "_unquestionably"_ guilty. Kahn then shot every one of these to dust with facts and forensics…an exercise he had performed at every prior visit with Pinault. Despite the ardent desire to yell, Kahn was able to remain cool on this occasion.

This being the usual point wherein the Chief Inspector's secretary would knock and remind him of a 'meeting', Nadir Kahn gathered hat and umbrella, rising to go. Pinault rose also, and said. "I hope that you have taken the enlightenment I have offered you to heart, Inspector Kahn. It has been a pleasure to discuss this case with you. However, I have allowed other duties to slide in doing so, and that I can no longer do. Please be assured that the citizens of Lyon have enormous confidence in my ability to as Chief Inspector of their police, and that I will bring Mademoiselle Butler to justice."

Nadir Kahn looked hard at the Chief Inspector; the urge to poke the sharp tip of his new umbrella into the man's gut was nearly overwhelming. Instead, Kahn offered, "I will then pray most fervently for the eventual enlightenment of the citizens of Lyon, France, and the continued freedom of Mademoiselle Butler."

Kahn opened the door, strode past the disorganized desk where the secretary sat pecking away at a typewriter, cigarette hanging from his lip, and through the noisy booking room filled with drunks, slatterns, and the occasional handcuffed criminal.

By the time he had reached the manqué in the Arab Quarter Nadir Kahn was again calm, his thoughts turned to more optimistic directions. He ate his breakfast, concentrating on the problem laid before him by a refreshingly humble Erik de'Carpentier. Although a difficult situation, it was still far more pleasant to ponder than the thought of dealing with the Chief Inspector of the Lyon Police.

Just the recall of Erik's face as he had related the…blessedly bowdlerized…account of his night with Aislyne Butler had the power to bolster Nadir's native good cheer. In one night of passion she had given Erik what he had so long denied himself: his humanity, a sense of self worth, and a fine introduction to the joys of physical love. Nadir Kahn felt he might know why the Mademoiselle had resorted to such an extreme act…and if he was correct, her aim had been faultless.

Of course, when Erik had admitted he had fled from his lover's arms, leaving the Mademoiselle to find her way back to the house _alone_, Nadir had chastised him. "Why would you do that? She will think you are ashamed of her!"

Erik immediately slid his arms about his chest, his expression reflecting confusion and conflict…as he blurted, "I was afraid…" One hand raised to rub his forehead; "Looking at Butler, I realized I no longer wished to throw my life away…I wished to spend it with her! Oh…do not misunderstand me! I realize Zamir ibn Hashim must be dealt with to assure our…_her_ safety. But surely there is another way that does not require my subsequent death in a hail of bullets!"

Nadir reassured the distressed man across from him. "No…I do not think that necessary, Erik."

Yes, the Mademoiselle's marksmanship had proved superb!

Launching himself from the chair, the disheveled man strode about the room, hand still at his forehead, the other waving at the air. "Daroga…I am sick of death…sick of being thought the monster who would deliver it, deserved or not. I know you doubt me, but I will tell you once again: _I have_ _not killed since I fled Persia_." Turning, Erik again paced the room, one fist pounding at his forehead. "Aislyne related to me her belief that in some instances what appears to be insanity is instead the over-reaction to stress or threatening situations. She told me that perhaps I…I overreacted at times where I knew of no other resolution. She used a most disturbing example of a cat in a tree."

Erik stopped and scowled most fiercely at this, then rounded upon Nadir Kahn, thrusting one index finger at him. "Example being…you tell me something I do not wish to hear. I could counter with argument, or get up and walk out. Yet how did I so often deal with this? Truthfully, now, my friend."

Kahn looked at the owner of the finger still hovering a yard from his nose. "With threats of violence. Oft-time followed by violence." Canting his head, he added, "You did say I should be truthful, mind."

Erik nodded, then turned and smiled faintly. "And I thank you for that, my friend, truly."

"You are most welcome, Erik. However, what does this to do with your shabby treatment of the Mademoiselle at your parting this morning?" For a moment Nadir Kahn held his breath, expecting the man standing before him to lift him from the chair by his necktie.

Erik's expression stiffened, but any anger was obviously aimed at himself. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat, saying, "I was speaking of Hashim, not Aislyne, Daroga. But perhaps it applies to both. I may have overreacted in both situations. As for my flight from Aislyne, I admit you are quite right; I acted like a frightened idiot."

Kahn nodded, not softening the boy's estimation of himself at all.

Setting a hand over his heart, Erik said, 'I believe I should send her roses, Daroga. A great many roses, and a card that offers a thousand humble apologies and assures her of my undying affection. Signed by 'An Ardent Admirer."

Kahn could not help but press his luck. "Roses are expensive, my friend."

Erik's eyes shot to Kahn's, and then his expression softened; for a moment Nadir was struck by the sweetness to be found in the younger man's smile. Kahn growled, "I will send roses for you. But please, what are you trying to tell me?"

Face now somber, Erik spoke. "What I mean to say is that I realize what you have been trying to tell me for so long is true. I have spent years waiting to die. However, I think I finally have the courage to live instead. "I have tasted the wine, Daroga…and it is sweet!"

Erik moved to stand before Kahn's chair, and in his characteristic dramatic fashion, fell to his knees, his posture penitent and submissive. "I no longer lust for Hashim's blood, Daroga, nor do I believe my death is inevitable. But I cannot allow him to hurt Aislyne, either. I need your help, Daroga."

Swallowing his shock, Nadir Kahn set both hands upon the thin shoulders before him. "And you shall have it, boy."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Please?


	60. Chapter Fifty Nine

Chapter Fifty Nine

After an extended soak and a ruthless scrub to remove a layer of the dye upon my face and hands, I rummage through my remaining clothing for something suitable for the day. All that remains are those few things that were not yet packed off to the Pullmen, which fortunately included a change of clothing…and Aislyne's pillow.

I dress enough to be decent, leaving vest and coat hanging upon the back of a chair. Pouring out the last lukewarm cup of coffee, I retreat to the small divan that sits before the unlit fire, with the pillow in my arms.

I am inexplicably reassured by such fair fortune, this tiny bit of Butler serving to give me hope that what I ask of fate is possible. My thoughts turn to her, even as the scent of roses and Pear's soap surrounds me, and I find I can no longer deny myself thoughts of the events in the garden.

I spend some time in blushing recall of our lovemaking, soon enough brought to ground with the realization that what I recall are but fleeting impressions and sensations. It all seems more fever dream than solid memory, lacking the satisfying propinquity of my lover. Were Aislyne here, however…

I am overwhelmed with the need to hold Aislyne…to press closely and kiss her…to experience again even the smallest of the pleasures we shared just hours before.

I quash such thoughts, so urgent is the desire to go immediately…this very minute!…to Grantham House. As my restless mind is coupled with an exhausted _corpus humanus,_ I realize I must rest…and that there is much to be done _first_ to insure our reunion is _safe_. For that reason alone I must be content with the scent of her hair and the feel of her pillow.

Nonetheless, I cannot keep from fretting…and patience having never been among my few virtues, my mind clamors, "W_here is Nadir Kahn?"_ Casting an aggrieved look at the ornate case clock that dominates the mantle, I determine he has been gone for…for an hour? Hardly time to get away from the hotel!

Closing my eyes I draw a deep breath, thinking, _"And poor Nadir is almost certainly run off his feet these days!" _

Yes, I should spare a thought for the man who once again must pull my sorry carcass from the flames.

Not so long ago the Daroga had 'retired' from his official duties so that he might concentrate on his beloved blue-eyed cats. I remember his first…Atosa…a true princess, and fitting for such a sleek, long-legged feline. He promised me a kitten from her very first litter…was that a year before Don Juan, or just months before? I know Nadir never had the time to find the properly bred tom for his lovely queens, Atosa, Rhodu, and Ahoo, what with the events immediately following the premier of my _opus magnum_…

I wonder…not for the first time…if the man curses my existence! How many times has he rescued me from an unkind fate when I stood within a hairsbreadth of certain disaster? How many opportunities for personal happiness has the Daroga put aside so that he might keep Erik from self-destructing?

Patience!

Such contemplation serves to temper my anxiety. As if summoned by my thoughts, I hear Nadir Kahn's voice, his tone admonitory: _"Impatience is the mother of misdeed and the father of folly."_ Or more frequently, _"Impatience is for the wedding night, Erik," _ which I did not fully understand for so very long. With a silent chuckle I realize _I now understand it completely! _

That thought is followed by the reflection that I am wrong to make light of what could well become a less than salubrious result for Aislyne. _Ah, my poor darling, what have I done to you?_ I recall the desperation and fear in her eyes as she laid her secret shame before me, willing to sacrifice so much for my sake. What a sorry tale…what a wretched way to live, thinking one is but a shell of humanity, informed with some fell creature of back-country mythology.

How could she have known that it would make no difference? Had she proved herself Beelzebub's sister, I would love her just as much!

I brood for several minutes on troubling consequences of Aislyne's traumatic birth; I admit that I lean towards dismissing the entire premise. I would argue that resuscitation of those presumed (newly) dead, achieved through medical art or happy accident, has occurred many times before. None have occasioned the faintest accusation thereafter of a loss of spiritual essence…a soul…because of the experience.

I know that I cannot treat her fears lightly, however. I vow to pull the entire story from her…very soon…and together we will look at it in the strong light of reason.

Knuckling a eye recently given to a most discouraging tic, I wish for the hundredth time I had taken the time to explain…to reassure her…

Instead I have left her in the dark…figuratively and factually. Again. Yet had I not left her then, I would be standing with her still, our fates balanced upon the commission of one last rash act. And in self defense I admit: I could not have told her I no longer wished to kill Hashim, having had no idea I would seek the Daroga's help instead. Not until I found myself slipping through the secret door into his apartment, sitting in that chair, awaiting his eventual rouse did I realize this. I certainly raced from that garden thinking I was going to murder Zamir ibn Hashim…maybe not this very day…but very soon.

I marvel at the lift provided my very soul by the thought _I will not be assassinating the assassin_. I have tied my future…_our_ future…onto the coattails of the Daroga, my confidence in his ability to pull us out of our present straits absolute.

With one reassuring glance at the hidden exit, I wrap myself around Aislyne's pillow and allow blessed oblivion and desperately needed sleep to overtake me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~

I awake to the sound of feet shifting about outside the door to the apartment, a loud belligerent voice arguing with one of the hotel maids. The maid is saying, "You cannot disturb this guest; it is at his request." A fist pounds loudly upon the door, and the voice of the maid, is now strident, saying, "No…you must leave or I will call for the hotel security!"

I slip off the divan, retreating to the bedroom door to watch the entry door to the suite anxiously, thankful Nadir insisted I set the chain. It will not stop a determined offense, but will slow the intruder enough I will have time to slip to the hidden exit.

Something skitters beneath the door; the heavy steps of the intruder retreat down the hallway accompanied by the fractious voice of the maid. Obviously the man had left.

I stare at the note lying a few inches from the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Grey skies delivered on their promise of rain, thankfully without a breath of wind. I was in no mood to enjoy its charm, having come to the painful conclusion Nadir Kahn was avoiding me.

I had no evidence to support such an assumption, but at the moment, I was not dealing with facts, but emotions. The resolve to accomplish the task I had assumed was accompanied by near witless terror at the very idea of doing so, and every passing minute meant yet another spent in that state.

I did not wish to be anywhere in the vicinity of Zamir ibn Hashim. I just could see no other way.

The footman sent with my message to Kahn finally returned just before the noon hour, reporting he had not been able to deliver the note as instructed having been thwarted because Kahn had _demanded he not be disturbed!_ Near mad with anxiety, I requested…then demanded!…I be allowed to go to the hotel myself…and Olivia had reasoned me out of it.

"You are being sought by the police, Aislyne, and by your own admission the hotel staff know your face. Just how badly do you wish to spend the remainder of your life in a French prison?"

After due consideration, I realized being captured by the police could only make the situation worse…so much worse.

Olivia continued, saying, "If Inspector Kahn does not return your message by 4 o'clock, I will go myself. Will this suffice?" She narrowed her eyes, adding, "But of course, if you would tell me what has you so anxious…why the urgency…I will go directly."

I said nothing to this, unwilling to involve the sisters further. Already I was endangering them just by being in Grantham House. What could I possibly tell Olivia that would also convince Nadir Kahn we needed to speak?

By the noon hour, I was far too agitated to do the cook's _cuisine campagnarde_ justice. I dismantled a roll and chased greens, tomatoes and white truffle bits about my plate, until I intercepted a 'look' between Olivia and Eleanor. Unwilling to deal with the questions I knew would soon be forthcoming, I asked to be excused and went to stand in the library, gazing out into the wildness of the back garden, watching the rain as the time ran away. Time…_I had so little time…_

It is at this point that fate…or _dharma_, perhaps…stepped in.

Several people came down the 'hidden' stairway, and doubtless thinking the library empty, stopped behind the ornate screen that concealed it from open view. A lively discussion then ensued; it was Henri and Bertran, one of the footmen, and Lisle, the housemaid, both of the later patently in a state of high emotion.

Naturally my initial reaction was to move away as I could hear every word from where I was standing at the library windows. However, welcoming some diversion from my own chaotic thoughts, I chose to ignore the clamor of native scruples. I remained where I stood and shamelessly listened as Bertran tried with little success to keep his voice low. The footman's English was broken, but I had little problem understanding what he said.

"He broke her jaw and her arm! Madame Fouché had him thrown out of 'ze house, but 'ze _monstre fou_ stood before 'ze building and screamed curses until 'ze _'fliks_ came and ordered him away."

Lisle squeaked, "All _'zee_ girls are frightened. All are warned of _'zis_ foreigner…but only one house refuses _hiz'_ custom. And now my sister…" Lisle broke into weeping, and for several minutes the only sounds were Henri and Bertran comforting her.

Henri said, "I am sure your sister will recover, Lisle. Madam Fouché takes care of 'er girls."

Bertran's voice rose further; "And what of _d'autres filles_ he has beaten, eh? And what of the man..this _démon étranger_…who will _stop_ 'heem?"

Stoutly, Henri declared, "The constabulary takes care of his kind…not a rabble of footmen! I'm sure Madam Fouché has brought charges against him…"

"_Mais non_!" Lisle's outburst was met with much 'shush'ing from Henri and Bertran; dropping her voice, she continued. "'Zey do nothing…and 'zee houses will do nothing. 'Zey will not as 'et iz bad for business."

Bertran lowered his voice, saying, "Something must be done, Henri, and Roberge and I know several others who will stand with us. We will run thiz' cruel _bâtard_ from our city…throw hem' back on the train he came on."

I knew Roberge was the other large, well-muscled footman for Grantham House.

Yet even as Bertran made his threat, Henri shushed him, saying, "And what do you mean t' do, sir? I hear he has his own guards with him constantly, and that nasty lawyer besides." After a moment's silence, she added, "You'd best not go beating up the mad 'a-rab as like as not you will end up dead or worse, my boy." Clucking soothingly at the weeping maid, Henri said, "I'm that sorry for your sister, Lisle, but it willna' help anyone should yon great fools get themselves kilt!"

As Lisle wept and Bertran cast further animadversions and threats about, I was frozen at the window, having realized just whom they were discussing: _Zamir Ibn Hashim_. Bertran and Henri continued to argue over who needed to do what to rectify the situation, and within minutes I had everything I needed to know.

Hashim was staying at a small pension on Rue Martine, called Le Bras d'Or, which was on the other side of Parc Lyon to the north. He currently had only two of his armed guards with him, and the Englishman.

I crept quietly out of the library and nearly ran to the wide stairway leading upstairs. Once in my room I found it necessary to sit for several minutes on my bed and marshal my emotions. Terror of what I was to do warred with the growing conviction that everything…all that had happened and would happen…was predestined. I was no more than a small cog in the great engine that swept us through our lives, be they short or long, always setting us exactly where we needed to be to accomplish our divinely-appointed task.

I felt my face grow cold, and my hands trembled with the thought…the small, unnerving thought…that today I was going to die.

And in rebuttal came the thought, _'but I could refuse to do this. I could just stay here, in my room…'_

And the response was swift: _'Then Erik will die.'_

Quickly I retrieved both pistols, having set them aside for safety's sake, and holstered them upon my person. I spent a few minutes smoothing my hair and adjusting the net scarf that rendered the low neckline of the dress far less shameless, and slipped the _sgian dubh_ into my right pocket. Sneaking across the hall, I lifted a heavy cloak from the closet of Beyvin's castoffs along with a suitable bonnet, and slipped down the front stairs.

Roberge stood in the foyer, expression as grim as the weather, no doubt brooding upon the subject Bertran, Lisle and Henri were presently discussing. Despite his height and width, somehow I did not think Roberge the hothead Bertran acted, nor as eager to face down the violent Hashim. Choosing an umbrella from those in the painted stand by the front door, I met Roberge's brooding gaze. "Would madam like me to bring up the callash? It is raining…"

"No, no. I do need you to unlock the front gate if you please." Following me out, he quickly unlocked the tall gate; he was soaked within seconds despite my holding the umbrella over us both. I shot out onto the street, wishing to get as far from Grantham House as possible before Roberge was able to inform Olivia that her English guest had flown the coop.

It was raining with enthusiasm, water rushing down the sides of the street in the gutters, the cobbles slick with mud. I kept my face down and umbrella low, attempting to shield as much of myself as I could whilst not running headlong into a carriage or tree.

By the time I'd crossed the park my boots were saturated, squishing noises accompanying every step. The hem of my dress hung heavy, as did the wool cloak. On a positive note, I was staying dry above the hem, at the price of nearly dying of heat within the heavy cloak. I felt sweat trickling down my spine…a most unpleasant feeling when wearing a full, wool-duff padded corset.

Paths across the park were oft-times muddy or less than direct, and several times I had to reorient myself so as to continue in a northerly direction. Finally I found myself standing before the modest…nay…decrepit Le Bras d'Or, which proved neither golden nor armed. Assaying the weedy front walk, I ascended the steps to the small covered entrance, where a card saying "_Entrez_" graced the center pane of thick glass in the door.

After removing and shaking out my cloak, bonnet, and umbrella rigorously, I entered, and immediately found myself in an unpretentious front hall. A small table set beside a narrow stairway held a bell, as well as another small card, bent to remain upright, that directed me to "_sonnez la cloche_".

I rang the bell. After a few moments an older man appeared, dabbing at his chin whiskers with a serviette. Upon seeing a lone woman dripping upon his waxed floor, he screwed his eyes up in a most suspicious manner, saying in good English, "I am Savard, the proprietor of this establishment. How may I help you?"

For a moment I was nonplussed; having arrived at this point, I had given no thought of how to proceed. Monsieur Savard crossed his arms. Deciding upon the straightforward approach, I said, "I need to speak to Monsieur Zamir Ibn Hashim, whom I understand is lodging here."

At Hashim's name there was the slightest lift of distaste to the man's thin lips. Plainly Hashim was not this man's favorite lodger. Nonetheless, he knew his business, saying, "Monsieur Hashim is a guest here, yes. I would not wish to disturb him without telling him who it was wished to see him."

"My name is Miss Bouchard, and we have a mutual acquaintance, from whom I bring an important message. I am sure he would be most happy to see me if you were to tell him 'Aeshema' sent me."

"Please…you will stay here, Mademoiselle Bouchard." Monsieur Savard bowed the tiniest bit, and then turned and ascended the narrow stairs, disappearing at the turn at the top. There was the faintest sound of voices, and then Savard reappeared, descending the stairs.

"Monsieur…will see you. He has requested you await him in the library. I have a fire laid; you will find it most comfortable. Come with me."

I was a bit surprised at Monsieur Savard's sudden affability. I followed him to a sizeable room with bookshelves on one wall, and massive framed maps on another two. Two wide mullioned windows filled the last wall, their heavy drapes pulled aside to show a narrow back lot bounded by a stone wall.

Pulling off my damp gloves, I took the chair offered, close to the fire but facing the entrance. Savard left, pulling the door closed behind him.

The wait stretched fifteen minutes…then twenty. My anxiety, already fueled by the thought of meeting Hashim in any circumstances, was exacerbated by the chorus of doubt and dire prediction from within. I worried that perhaps I had not given the correct name as Erik's _alter persona_…the name Erik had taken upon becoming the Khanum's personal magician. As 'Aeshema' was so unmistakably foreign, I had remarked it most particularly, saying it just as Nadir Kahn had, pronouncing every vowel.

Eventually I became uncomfortably warm sitting so close to the fire; I stood to walk about, hopeful that my boots would no longer leak water upon the fine rug. My skirts had dried to some extent, but were still unpleasantly cold against my legs.

The door opened…and Eduard Delcourt walked into the library.

"Ahhhh." Closing the door with a backhand push, he marched across the room, stopped with a click of his bootheels, and grabbed my chilly hand to pull it to his lips for a hearty smack. "Aislyne Butler, in the…ah…flesh." The look he gave me at this point was unpleasantly comprehensive, sliding across my chest and down my front. The man was half a head shorter, and disliked looking up, obviously. "I am most happy to meet you, Miss Butler. Allow me to introduce myself…."

After a short struggle I was able to jerk my hand out of his hot grip. "I asked to see Zamir Hashim, Mr. Delcourt. Not you."

Delcourt threw out his arms. "You break my heart! I am a fellow Brit, dear lady; surely you must be happy to meet…"

"You are no 'fellow' of mine, sir. I wish to speak to your employer, Zamir Ibn Hashim."

Delcourt stepped back, his smarmy expression replaced by a look as feral as that of the hungriest weasel. "Hashim isn't here, my lady. And I'm some surprised, you coming here to see him…_alone_. Surely you don't mean to engage in anything but _verbal_ intercourse with the man here in the library." Again he chuckled, no doubt amused by the increase of color across my cheeks.

"I have no time for this, Delcourt." Turning to fetch my cloak and umbrella, I fought disappointment. So close…so nearly done!

Delcourt grabbed my arm, releasing me immediately when I turned to glare _down_ at him for his presumption. Puffing out his chest, he declared, "Zamir ibn Hashim is not my employer, Miss Butler. He is my…_protégé_. I am helping him find his way in European society. He would be _peu convenable_ otherwise…his behavior…" Delcourt shrugged, obviously amused.

Did the man's hubris ever end? Since when was brutalizing women a tenet of _European society_?

I had to firmly curb my tongue, realizing that crossing words with Delcourt would not be productive. After a moment spent regaining my composure, I asked, "When will Mr. Hashim return, Mr. Delcourt? I need to speak with him…_today_." I heavily emphasized the last word.

Delcourt smiled, his expression knowing. "Dear lady, of course you do! I never meant to give you the impression he wouldn't see you. _Non mais_! But…he isn't here. I would be more than happy to escort you to our humble apartments where you can _privately_ await his return in comfort. Please…come with me…"

"No, no, no. I will wait for him…here." I had no intention of allowing Delcourt to take me anywhere. I needed to have command of the situation, and going to Hashim's rooms threw that control away. Delcourt's polite smile never wavered, but his eyes showed his annoyance. Nonetheless, I made it very plain I would not budge.

After a moment of smiling in a manner that served to undermine my hard-won confidence, Delcourt snapped his heels together and bowed. Voice oily with pseudo-obsequiousness, Delcourt exclaimed, "Madame Butler, but of course you wish to stay here. A warm fire…the lovely view… And I have been most remiss! I will request Savard send tea while I fetch our Mr. Hashim."

With yet another crack of his heels, the lawyer swept out of the library; he gave a whispered command to someone outside the door and disappeared down the hallway, bellowing for Monsieur Savard.

For several seconds I silently cursed; my original intent was to seek a private audience with Hashim without the vexing interference of his lawyer or guards. I now had to consider Delcourt's presence into my plan of action, and that there was obviously a guard outside the door. I would not be allowed to leave had I wished to. After a moment's consideration I realized…_it made no difference_.

A dowdy woman wearing a dirty apron brought a tray containing a stoneware pot and one cup, setting it down so roughly it clattered. Her attendant remark in French was totally unintelligible to me, but her hard eyes and lifted lip told me it was likely not polite. Nonetheless I thanked her…which she received with a scowl.

Shaking my head, I turned away to look out the window, keeping my eye on the door. A scant minute later, Zamir ibn Hashim walked through it.

Ignoring the immediate spike of terror the sight of Erik's enemy invoked, I smiled widely, saying, "Ahhhh…so you were here. Excellent!"

In a very European manner, Hashim immediately thrust out his hand, grabbing mine, for what I assumed would be the obligatory kiss. Instead he circled my wrist firmly, saying. "I will assume you are armed Mademoiselle Butler; I know you are right-handed."

Alarmed, I attempted to pull my hand from his grasp. "Whatever are you talking about, Monsieur?"

A guard had followed Hashim into the room; at a nod he closed the door. Hashim barked, "Search her for a pistol. I know she has one somewhere… We may have to strip you to find it, eh?"

"No…no. It is on my boot." I watched, dry-mouthed, as the guard crouched to yank up my skirt to look at my boots, finding the 'red-jacket' in the holster on my right ankle. The feel of the man's hands upon my icy limb was shocking, and when he seemed to linger too long, I jerked my foot away. The guard turned up his face and laughed at me. He handed the pistol to Hashim, saying something in French that I wish I had not understood.

Hashim dropped the pistol into his coat pocket, clearly not happy. With a vicious jerk, he twisted my arm up behind my back; I could not stop my cry of pain. Grabbing my neck, Hashim yanked me around to growl harshly into my face. "I am bitterly disappointed in you, Miss Butler! Did you expect me to so easily forget our last meeting? Do you think I am a fool?"

Through gritted teeth I hissed, "I think you are a fool not to hear what I might have to say!" One moment was all I needed. If I could get him to release my right wrist…

Giving my arm another brutal yank, Hashim grunted, saying, "I have no interest in what you have to say, woman!" Hashim motioned to the guard. "Here…tie her hands. And watch her closely, as the woman is too clever." Bending my arm about, he again gave my wrist a hard twist, and this time I felt something give painfully. I gasped, fighting nausea and panic. The guard grabbed both of my wrists, and tied my hands with a thin leather cord, wrapping it about my wrists several times, then pulling it tight and knotting it about the center. I knew my hands would be in agony within minutes.

Hashim grinned, his eyes manic. "I have you, and that is all I need."

At that moment Delcourt knocked and entered, saying, "I've sent Savard on a fool's mission. He wasn't happy to go, but…," and he shrugged.

Giving Delcourt a narrow look, I told him, "Too many people know I came here today. You…and he…are already being watched."

When Delcourt shot a questioning look at Hashim, the dark man sneered at him. "Do not listen to this woman's prattle. I doubt she told anyone where she was bound…a woman values her virtue too much to admit she is visiting a man without maid or consort."

Delcourt's face was troubled. "Zamir, you swore you would harm no one but this Bouchard. You've broken that pledge twice, and battered far too many whores besides! When our inside man finds that you've pulled _her_ into this, he will give us up to the national police!"

"Forget him! He is a fool! By the time he learns she was here, we will be long gone, with Aeshema's head!"

At this pronouncement I felt sick, now aware of what my current foolishness would cost. Swallowing the impulse to panic, I glared at Delcourt, saying, "Please tell me you are not thinking to use me as bait…to lure Jerrod Bouchard here?" I tipped my chin up to best place the smaller man's face below nose level.

Delcourt's brows dropped in annoyance. Hashim grinned widely, however, and pulled me to a wooden chair. "Sit." When I stubbornly remained standing, he set his hand upon my breast and shoved me hard enough to put me in the chair, where I landed rather gracelessly, rapping my head briskly upon the top rail. He tied my bound hands to the right arm, cranking down on the cord until my wrists were tight against the wood. My right wrist was already swelling, the cord cutting into my flesh.

Standing to view his handiwork, Hashim continued, his grin growing demonically wide. "As you have so generously delivered yourself to me, I will certainly use you as bait, Miss Butler. Already one of my men delivers the message to Nadir Kahn. And where Kahn is, I wager your Monsieur Bouchard can be found also."

Swallowing hard, I tried to assume a credible expression of regret, saying, "You waste your time. Inspector Kahn may come…backed by the dozens of armed men he has here in Lyon. But my patient has continued his journey to Italy. I know, because I put him on the train going east with his new nurse."

Delcourt immediately threw up his hands, and looked as if he would argue with Hashim. Hashim merely grinned and leaned far too close to me, saying, "And why should I believe what you tell me? Aeshema is many things…but craven is not one of them. You are his woman, and he will come."

Forcing out a rather unenthusiastic laugh, I said, "I am only his nurse. To think that anyone, much less a gentleman such as Monsieur Bouchard would risk so much just to free a…a ward nurse…" I shook my head. My efforts at persuasion were hampered by the tremor in my voice, and uncontrollable shaking of my limbs. Delcourt's expression grew more frantic, yet Hashim's eyes bored a hole through mine.

"We will see, yes? And I believe you are lying, Miss Butler."

I sighed, feigning impatience. "Believe what you will. We will be waiting for a very long time if it is Monsieur Bouchard we wait for."

My only reward for my humbuggery was the growing look of discontent on Eduard Delcourt's face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nadir Kahn was again cursing the rain. Having expected it, he was better prepared, but it continued to be a vast nuisance.

There was not a fiacre to be found within a mile of the Lyon Police Station. The new umbrella was proving up to the task of keeping the rain off, but too many streets were flooded in this part of the city, making it difficult to keep his feet dry. The rather final dismissal delivered by Chief Inspector Pinault, wrapped in the statement that nothing Kahn could say or do would change his mind about the mademoiselle's innocence served to add to his growing feeling of utter failure.

And now it seemed that Lyon's Chief Inspector had set a follower on him. It was only slightly encouraging to think that Captain Heizel's tail and the new man would soon be bumping elbows in their attempt to keep his backside in view. It could have been a humorous situation had Kahn been in any state to enjoy it.

Stopping to survey the next flooded portion of Rue Racine, Kahn cursed roundly and set his boot in the fast-flowing river of muddy, debris-filled water that filled the gutters at the cross-street intersection. Despite stepping carefully, the strong current threatened to send the foul wash over his boot-tops; he was unhappy to see that the depth grew instead of abated as he picked his way toward the center of the cross street.

At the sound of a shout, Kahn looked up to see a brougham pulled by four rain-soaked greys barreling towards him on the cross street, apparently hell-bent for home fires and dry stable. At the very last moment it swerved for the comparatively lower water where he stood, the coachman yelling out a warning. Kahn threw himself back onto the raised sidewalk, feet slipping on the muddy bricks. The carriage threw a fine rooster tail of filthy water as it passed the corner, soaking Kahn from breast button to boots.

Yelling invective in fine, articulate French, Inspector Kahn shook his fist at the carriage. After a moment's survey of the damage, he gave a great sigh, and shook the filth from the front of his long wool overcoat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time he had finished his morning errands, Nadir Kahn wished only to soak his feet in hot soapy water, drink several cups of sweet coffee and take a well-earned nap. He spent several minutes envisioning these pleasures while crossing the river peninsula in the fiacre he was able to flag down just shy of Rue La Comdamine.

Of course, he might only get his coffee…and that only if he were willing to stop by the kitchen, something he was loath to do in his present wet, malodorous condition.

By the time he negotiated the line of traffic that predictably blocked the entry to Le Corbusier, he had pretty much given up hope of all but a change of clothes and a good foot soak. His afternoon would be as busy as his morning, but hopefully much more fruitful.

He needed to send a very explicit wire to Paris to the de'Chagny's, one to the _directore_ of the _Sûreté Nationale_ with information concerning the murders of the French citizens Chason and Xavier. Heizel's men, as laughable as they were, needed to be called off by their highly placed employer before they cost anyone their life. A warrant for immediate action needed to be included in the agency mailbag that left via rail every evening.

No less important, but far more compelling, a place of safety needed to be found for Erik and Aislyne. He refused to lose another to the Persian despot's demonic assassins.

Realizing there was absolutely nothing he could do about the criminally-inept Chief Inspector Pinault of the Lyon Police, Nadir Kahn still vowed to have the man heavily investigated for malfeasance in his position as Chief Inspector. The man must have paid somebody off…or been paid off…to get the job.

Closing and shaking his umbrella once under the _porte-cochere_, Kahn swept into the hotel, eager to reach his room, only to be hailed by the hirsute manager at the front desk.

Remembering the man's hard stare of a few days past, Kahn squared his shoulders and approached the desk. "Yes? You called for me?"

The manager leaned forward, saying, "There was a man here from Grantham House asking after you. Appeared t' be a footman. Seems he had a message t' deliver personally t' your hand, and wouldna' be talked into leaving it here."

Realizing immediately from whom the message would have come, Kahn thanked the manager, only to have the man lean closer and add, "Another man…him in uniform thought none I recognized…showed up looking for you sometime after. He wasna' near so easy t' send on his way, insisting he would go t' your room and wait by the door."

The manager's face seemed to bristle angrily, his general affect being that of righteous disapproval. Nonetheless Kahn nodded agreeably and started to turn away, but the manager held up a hand, saying, "The man became vera' loud and abusive. I found it necessary t' insist he wait outside. He was not well pleased t' do that."

Kahn again nodded, saying "As I am expecting no visitors, much less one loud and abusive, I am in your debt for handling the matter, Monsieur. It would appear he chose not to wait."

This time Kahn awaited the manager to continue, recognizing that the man had more to say.

"You are still caring for the…ah…servants of the de'Chagny party, I believe. I trust the hotel staff have been helpful?"

Kahn smiled. "Indeed they have. Two maids…a Miss Abelle and Miss Lucie particularly…have been very attentive. Hopefully the Gadreaus will be able to travel soon."

"I see. Well…" The hirsute gentleman behind the counter became very busy aligning his pen beside his ledger. "I am…ah-hem…I was shocked t' hear the young woman serving as nurse t' the de'Chagny gentleman is being sought by the police."

Kahn's gaze sharpened, searching the manager's face for clues to his thoughs. "I am sorry…I did not catch your name."

"Crombe. James Crombe, Monsieur."

Kahn looked Crombe in the eye, declaring, "Well Monsieur Crombe, I am doing my best to see that Mademoiselle Butler is cleared of this ridiculous charge…or charges, as there were two men murdered. I have no doubt you are familiar with all this."

Crombe looked down, his broad head rolling in agreement. "The two men in the railcar…yes, yes, a sad business, that. They were both fine lads, never gave a moment's trouble t' the maids, always polite." Giving Kahn a narrow look, he added, "You will have an uphill battle convincing the local _polis_' of Miss Butler's innocence. Speaking as a fellow foreigner, I've found them quick t' take offense at any suggestion they might be wrong. I've only one run-in with them, over a man who attempted t' leave without paying his shot. It proved vera' unpleasant."

Crossing his arms, Kahn asserted, "I care little if the local police are offended, Monsieur Crombe. I care only that the lady is cleared." Seeing the tacit agreement in James Crombe's eyes, Nadir Kahn thanked him and excused himself, catching the hotel lift just as the operator moved to close the gates. He ignored the offended gaze and pinched nostrils of the young couple who shared the car with him. The operator kept his eyes downcast, but subtly covered his nose.

_If the first messenger was from the Mademoiselle, who was the other?_ Kahn was afraid…very afraid…that he knew exactly from whom the second messenger came. _What have you done, Mademoiselle Butler?_

The lift ground to a stop at the 4th floor; Kahn scanned the hallway and table beside his door carefully before touching the door. There was nothing…no disarray or sign of a struggle. With a careful hand he tried the door handle, finding it secure. However, the chain undone.

Walking thorough the sitting room to his bedroom, it was clear the apartment was empty. Erik was gone. But he had left a note…

There was a folded square of cheap note paper lying upon his bed, carefully arranged so he would not miss it. Scrawled across one side in Erik's clumsy cursive hand were the words, _'You know where I have gone. E'._

It was the message on the other side that chilled Kahn to his soul. Written in the neat, blocked style embraced by lawyers everywhere, it said: '_We have the woman. Deliver him or she will suffer. ZIH'. _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	61. Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty

The little knife flashed as it danced around my fingers, the silver work on the pommel and ivory grip flickering in the glow of the gas lamps. I quickly sent it without pause to my left hand, repeating the delicate waltz about my fingers, and back again to my right to flip it up to balance upon my forefinger, the tip indenting my flesh. With a flick I sent it spinning into the air, to land between my boots, blade stuck in the boardwalk.

The new boys expressed their appreciation with hoots and clapping; the regulars were used to my deft tricks with the _sgian dubh_. Fetch, one of eldest members in my crew, made to grab the knife from where it stood between my feet, perhaps thinking that as he was nearly two foot shorter, he could do it easily.

Whipping my foot up, I caught at the knife's curved pommel with the side of my boot, sending the blade up and sideways into my left hand, a trick Rogan had taught me just a few days before. Though secretly tickled pink the trick had worked, I growled at the impudent Fetch, "Naught touches me chiv 'cept me, nicky. Next time I'll stick it in yer' eye!" I dropped the _sgian dubh_ securely into the leather tied about my waist under my ragged shirt.

Fetch covered one eye and grinned at me. "Just testin' yer reflex, Shanks." I thumped his head with a dirty knuckle and laughed. You never stayed angry with those in your crew.

Fetch pulled a table knife tucked into the hemp rope that tied up his pants. "I got a better'n than that, anyways. More reach o' yours, and no flash tatting." Holding up the tarnished and worn caseknife, he gave us all a look at it.

Badger scowled and scoffed. "That's for spreading butter, sprat. That cheap metal won't hold an edge for nawt."

Incensed, Fetch defended his weapon, pointing a finger at Badger's: an old iron nail ground flat and embedded in a short length of wood. "It's not like anyone but Shanks has a real blade anyhow. And his is more for tricks 'n flash, 'nawt big enough for much else."

I had grown used to being called 'Shanks', given the name because of my height being mostly legs. "All shank, no blade' as Badger had first remarked, whilst tapping his head at the last bit. I was considered to be a mite light between the ears, having joined the crew whilst still ignorant of the ways of the London streets. I told them I was newly come from Ireland, but my absolute naiveté branded me as something beyond a mere rustic, bordering upon slow-witted. It was my strength and skill with the knife…the tricks that amused, and the accuracy with which I could throw it…that earned me a place in their crew.

Of course, being an imposter among a group of preadolescent boys meant taking the ribbing that every boy received at one time or another. It also meant taking exception to it as vigorously and decisively as the occasion warranted…something I had no problem doing when necessary, thanks to my older brothers' rough and unwitting tutorage. That I was taller, heavier and stronger than most of the thin, undernourished boys certainly helped, and kept my real gender _unthinkable_ as well.

Lounging about the well lighted façade of Fanny's Follies Theater, we all waited for the _tip and dash…_to be sent off by the theater manager to fetch 'entertainment' or provender for the parties of swells and sporting gentlemen who crowded the front boxes of the theater during the midweek evening performances. For a penny we 'dashed' to one of the local houses to deliver requests for the working girls (each of whom would tip us as well). Alternately there were several cookshops who catered food and drink for the theatergoers; we provided delivery services. That cost our customers tuppence, with a tip from the cookshop too.

Some nights we all got the dash eight or ten times; some nights we were lucky if we caught one or two altogether. As we split our wages evenly amongst the six of us, nobody went home with nothing unless everybody went home with nothing…it was that which made belonging to a 'crew' important.

Working Fanny's on Wednesdays and Fridays with my crew was a fine billet; tips were good and the sporting houses being relatively close by made it generally a very safe enterprise.

The Monday nights that the crew worked the Abelard Burlesque in Spitalfields were riskier, as the theater was much closer to the two universities in nearby districts. During school holidays the university students hung about the theater drinking, milling in the streets, and heckling the working girls. Dash boys were frequent targets of superior male aggression; more than one boy found himself in a ring of drunken swells, being pushed, punched and kicked about. The rest of the time it was just the low order of custom Abelard attracted, who were as interested in jacking us for our few pennies as seeing the half-dressed dance girls.

When we worked the Abelard, we worked in teams of two; I was usually teamed with Dog or Fetch, both of which were short and slight for their age, although very fast on their feet. Only Badger matched me in height, although he was frail, no doubt because of lifelong malnutrition. We were 13 years except for Punch and Raj, these two being but 11 and 12 years respectively.

Running the streets of Shoreditch and Hoxton several nights a week proved the cure for nearly all that ailed me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Granny Muldoon passed from all earthly cares the spring of '59, the year following my utter fall from grace, mourned by my mother and Granny's contemporaries in Saint Doimthech Parish. The majority of the Butlers wore long faces, but breathed easier, hoping the feud betwixt the parish and farm would abate without the constant whip of Granny's viperish tongue.

The wake was held in the parish hall because Da would not have Gwen Muldoon in his house, living or dead. After a acrimonious debate at the dining table the evening before, my mother attended the wake for Granny Muldoon accompanied only by Tiernan and the infants Quinn and Derry. Perhaps in response to Mam's ill-temper of the evening before, Da took Kenna, Grania and me with him to Cork City in the wagon, Caley riding alongside. Kavenaugh and Rogan stayed behind to mind the farm.

We had a grand day, an exceptionally fine day, and I forgot everything but the joy of being a Butler. Da let me drive the wagon and Caley allowed me to canter his big bay stallion, Aherin on the long stretch betwixt Kilmurriheen and Rochfordstown. I seldom had the opportunity to ride these days.

Cork City is 10 miles northeast of Ballinhassig Town, and the roads are well-traveled and maintained. The wagon filled with Butlers made good time, and we filled the air with song and laughter. Once the wagon was stacked with sacks and boxes of feedstuffs and staples, Da took us to dinner at the Crackney Hotel, where we showed off our fine manners, and Caley charmed the waitresses.

By the time we reached the outer fields to the farm it was dark, the oil light suspended off the footboard spar casting spooky shadows on the road behind us. I sat on the springseat with Da, the wee girls having fallen asleep cradled one each in Caley's arms. Mighty Aherin was stripped of saddle and bridle and tied to the tailboard by his head collar, pulling wisps of the hay from the stack Caley had thoughtfully provided him in the back of the wagon bed.

I leaned against my father, listening to the night sounds and watching the moon pass through wisps of cloud, giving it the odd appearance of moving swiftly through the sky. Despite the troubles that seemed to dog my steps the past year, I felt loved and secure, safely sheltered within my father's strength.

The large triple-lamps before the house were visible long before we turned onto the drive to the farm, serving as assurance that all was well.

Tiernan and Mam returned home the following morning, Mam tired and subdued, and both infants fractious from the disruption of their routines. Both were handed off to me to be cleaned and fed, a task I did with pleasure as it meant playing and reading with my younger siblings, much preferred to laundry and chores.

~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~

The earliest olive branch came in the form of Donald Gredy, the first of the farm help to quit. He came, hat in hand, to beg his job back, saying, "Its all well and fine for m' mother to blather on 'what the Bible says', but I'm thinking nowhere it says to starve m' children. So I told the old harpy and the wife I'd be stopping by to ask for m' job back."

My brothers were all for running him off the property after a dunking in the manure-rich cow pond. My father said, "Its my thinking the man has problems enough a'home, and needs a break. We can certainly use the help."

Still, he was firm with Gredy, telling him, "You will work for your pay. Any lollygagging and I'll have you off the place. The boys and I have done without help this past year, and can do so again."

Two women from the railworkers' camp were next, seeking jobs as maid of all work and cook. My mother hired them both immediately; since Beyvin had left, meals…as prepared by my mother and myself…had proved less than palatable. Any improvement was welcome.

Of course, no invitation to resume business came from the mercantile, dry goods and market shops in Ballinhassig. The Greybeals and their sizeable coterie of 'witch hunters' kept the rumors and accusations going. I had not been to Ballinhassig Town in over a year, nor did I go very far afield unless accompanied by one of my brothers or father. I had no illusions as to what would happen to me if I were caught alone by any of Greybeal's supporters.

Mam continued to attend Saint Doimthech, but the passing of her mother seemed to strip her of protection from being the subject of accusations and rumors. As one outspoken member of Granny's circle eventually told her to her face, "Laying with dogs, you'll likely have fleas."

Increasingly she was cut by others in the parish. Come the day she returned home from Wednesday mass far too early, and sat in the kitchen weeping, I hid in the barn loft, sick with apprehension. I later learned she had been informed she was no longer welcome to serve in any capacity with preparations for the Feast of St. Anne's day fair. My mother had _always_ helped with St. Anne's for as long as I could remember.

My mother's pain and tears at such treatment infuriated my father, but he had learned to keep his opinions to himself. My mother's thoughts on all of this was only too clear to me, and in that we apparently agreed: all of this was my fault…mine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~

Twice monthly trips were made to Cork for those foodstuffs we could not produce on the farm, to pick up equipment, and any packages and letters left at the Mail Office. Once the heavy spring rains had given way to the somewhat dryer summer, Mam made the trip with two of the older boys, usually one in the wagon, and one riding beside.

Naturally, I stayed home to care for my younger siblings…a fate I chose to enjoy to the fullest. We now had two maids…one of whom did the laundry…and the cook, who had proven to be quite satisfactory. Nothing was expected of me but to care for Kenna, 7, Grania, 5, and babies Derry, 3 and Quinn, 10 months. Spending the days reading to them, playing in the nursery or in the walled yard outside, and caring for my younger siblings provided me with a small family of my very own, and kept me from missing my nights out in the woods and fields, or dwelling overmuch upon the troubles I had brought upon my family.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the middle of hay production, which was in July, the McCormick tedder…the horse-drawn machine that windrowed and flipped the hay to facilitate even drying…broke. Only half of the hayfields were cut, and since there was naught but Donald helping Da and my eldest brothers, Mam, Rogan and Caley would take the wagon to Cork for the replacement part. They left immediately after breakfast, figuring to be back home before dark.

Caley later told us the trip to Cork City was without incident. The part for the tedder was picked up from the McCormick Equipment dealer, stowed and secured on the wagon, and after a picnic lunch allowing the team to graze and drink, they started for home.

It was just before sunset on Bandon Road betwixt Tullig More and Barrettshill that they were surrounded by several men on foot, faces covered and hats pulled low. Caley, who was riding, had the only firearm, but he was pulled from his horse before he could get the rifle from his saddle holster.

At first Caley thought them outlaws…highwaymen, who seldom did more than relieve a traveler of their food, guns and coins, leaving their victims untouched. He soon realized these were no highwaymen.

Three men jerked Rogan off the wagon bench; two men grabbed Mam, pulling her out of the wagon bed onto the road. Both Rogan and Caley fought their attackers, but far too soon Caley was overwhelmed, tied hand and foot, kicked several times in the ribs and head and left lying on the road. For several minutes he could hear his mother's screams and Rogan yelling bloody murder.

Once he was left alone, he rolled to see what was happening to Mam; three men were beating a still-flailing Rogan as Mam was held down and attacked by the others. Caley lay in the dirt of the road and screamed, sobbed, and cursed, unable to help his mother or brother.

Eventually he was dragged to his feet and the leader…the only one on horseback…gave him a message to deliver to our father. "Your family aren't welcome in Cork, nor anywhere in the county as long as the witch abides. The next time we will not be near so gentle with your wife and sons."

The men disappeared into the trees, leaving Caley tied, and Mam sobbing in the road holding an unconscious and bleeding Rogan. She finally came to cut Caley free, her face beaten and bloody and clothing torn to rags. Once they had Rogan in the wagon, Mam cradled his head in her lap and told Caley to get them home as quickly as possible.

Caley nearly killed the team of horses, driving them hard the last five miles to get Mam and Rogan back to Ballinhassig, thinking Rogan was dying.

We heard the yelling long before we knew it was Caley. By the time he was halfway up the long drive, Da had reached them, running faster than I'd ever have believed possible. I sat with the children in the parlor, watching out the window as the wagon reached the house, the poor team blowing and trembling, chests and sides lathered with foamy sweat.

Kavenaugh helped Da bring Rogan into the house and laid him upon the dinner table whilst Tiernan fetched Mam one of his shirts to put over her cold, bare shoulders and a warm wet towel to clean the blood off her face and hands.

I put Derry and Quinn to bed, leaving both of the older girls to keep an eye on them. "Grania, you come get me out to the barn if either of the babies wake up. Kenna…you stay with the babies!" I knew I was wrong to leave the children alone, especially as upset as they were, but I could not leave the team standing out in the yard, still in traces and without water. Both were geldings, of no great value on a place like Ballinhassig, but I'd known both for most of my life, and they certainly deserved better.

I unhitched the exhausted horses, leading them to the large paddock before the barn where I stripped off the harnesses and bridles, slipping head collars over their faces. Then walking them both slowly around the enclosure I cooled them out, allowing them small sips of water every circuit. Once their trembling had calmed and the sweat on their bodies had dried to a salt haze, I groomed and rubbed each briskly, wrapped their legs in standing wraps and covered them with light blankets against the evening's chill.

Extra bedding in their stalls, a full bucket of tepid water and an armful of hay for each and I had done all I could do for them. If they were lucky neither would colic or road founder, suffering only sore muscles and a reluctance to walk very far in the pasture for a few days.

I met Kavenaugh leading the tall, leggy mare Caley had been riding just that morning, up to the barn. She, too, would welcome a drink and a warm rug, though riderless horses were not stressed near as much by a run, especially race-bred as she was. She had followed the wagon all of the way home on her own.

Kavenaugh nodded to me, saying, "It looks as if Rogan will be fine…nothing is broken, he's got all his teeth and Mam sez his head isn't broken. He's already asking for his supper." We smiled; Rogan was always hungry.

"Mam is…" and for an instant I thought Kavenaugh was going to cry. Clearing his throat, he said, "How are Teddy and Ben? I saw you lead them up here, but was too busy helping Da to do anything until now."

I reached out to pat the big chestnut mare, saying, "They might be just fine…if they are lucky. I do not think we should ask much of them for awhile."

It was quiet when I walked through the scullery door, the kitchen silent, no voices to be heard at all. I crept up the stairs to the large nursery where I found all four children soundly asleep, Grania and Kenna having put themselves to bed. Suddenly exhausted, I opened the door between the nursery and my small room and found my own bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the early spring of 1860 the largest portion of the Cork County Butlers moved to London, England, leaving Ballinhassig and Ireland behind. Ballinhassig Farm's reputation of producing superlative horses remained unsullied, and my parents were confident that once the senior Butlers had taken their troublesome offspring…that being me…and left, the Farm would be accepted by the community.

My parents decided to move to London to start up a livery and leather goods business, my father knowing a great deal of one, albeit nothing of the other. He would continue training carriage and saddle horses, bringing stock over from the farm. My mother would keep the books and manage the leather shop. Father was using his contacts in the horse business to locate at least two skilled cordwainers who would work out of the leather shop making harness and strap goods for shares in the business's profits.

My oldest brothers, Tiernan and Kavenaugh, would stay at Ballinhassig to run the horse farm. Tiernan was engaged to the daughter of a prominent local family, and considered a good Catholic. Kavenaugh, although presently dedicated to his bachelor status and not near the devoted Catholic, would still do well, having many friends in the parish, as well as an army of hopeful young women determined to bring his heart to heel.

Months prior to our move my father traveled several times to London to locate and purchase a house and land upon which he would build the necessary shop, barns and paddocks for the business. Instead of having to buy land and build, my father found a dairy farm for lease/purchase in Kingsland Parish in northwest London that was everything he needed with the advantage of being well located just off the Kingsland Road.

My brothers Rogan and Caley were next to leave for England; they would assist my father in turning the dairy farm's residence into a workshop for leather goods on the first floor, and an office on the second. Both barns needed work to provide suitable stabling for the horses and carriages, but the ten-acre pasture adjacent was well fenced and verdant.

He found a suitable house with land enough for mother's gardens, livestock, and rooms enough for nine people to live in some comfort in Dalston Junction, a village recently incorporated into the City. The area was largely middleclass, with an area of estate homes along the main road, a growing suburban community, two schools to choose from for the girls, a healthy local market, and the shop a reasonable drive away. Our home was a large older farmhouse which required some work, but certainly was of newer vintage than the manor house on Ballinhassig Farm.

Within weeks of our leaving for London, the Ballinhassig Farm's connections to the local businesses were restored. Tiernan had no problem reestablishing accounts with the local merchants, and Kavenaugh found there was no lack of hardworking local men to help with stock and gardens.

As far as Ballinhassig Parish was concerned, the offending members of the Butler clan had disappeared in a puff of black, satanic smoke.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I can still see my father's face as he stood at the steam ferry's rail in the inevitable spring rain, watching as the stony cliffs of Robert's Head disappeared in the wall of rain and sea mist. He stood just so from the moment the ferry cast off lines at the _Rinn ui Scidígh_ docks in Cork Harbor, and I was afraid he would still be there when we tied up in Swansea, England, looking west to Ireland. For a very long while his cheeks were wet despite the wide brim on his crofter's hat, and I was terrified that it was not from the rain.

My mother sent the younger children inside to the lounge, out of the weather, but when I moved to join them, she stopped me, her hand flat to the front of my hooded cloak. "It's a heavy price he's paid for your foolishness, Aislyne Mharie. I want you to appreciate that."

For several uncomfortable heartbeats our eyes locked, hers narrowed and hard. After a bit, she sighed, and giving a little push with her hand, she turned and left me. I knew what that little push meant.

I watched through the thick window as Mam picked up Quinn and wrapped him in her tartan wool shawl, holding him close and kissing his rosy baby cheeks. Quinn was a beautiful child, with reddish brunette curls atop a high forehead, deep-set eyes of smoky green, and the Butler nose…thin but for the ball at the tip. I loved him, as I did all of my family…would fight and gladly die for him if ever that were necessary. But in that moment…standing alone in the rain…I envied him sinfully.

I moved to stand at the rail with my father, an exercise that was noted by none but the gulls that constantly fluttered about any passengers topside. My father had closed himself away from me gradually, starting the night my mother and brothers came home beaten and abused. I had accepted it; I did not blame him.

"It's a heavy price he's paid…" said my mother, and I wished I could have assured her that I knew it only too well.

My thoughts took their inevitable toll, the gradual tightening of my chest leaving me wheezing and coughing so that other passengers looked at me with concern. My father never turned to me once, oblivious to my struggle to pull each breath into my cramping lungs, his eyes glued to the mist that hid Ireland from his sight.

When I could take the cold and wet no longer, I crept into the box stall below deck where two of the older broodmares stood swaying with the ship's motion. There I found some relief. Curled in a fetal position at Lady Mhair's feet, her rugate chin resting upon my shoulder, I came to realize that Granny Muldoon had always been right. She had seen me most truly for what I was.

I finally understood the terrible truth of my existence. I _**was**_ evil. I _**was**_ the 'dark child'. And just as Granny swore, I had brought such pain and harm to my family, it was a wonder I still had a family.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One of the maids, Mary, and the cook, Mrs. Fitch, moved with us to England; Mary's husband having deserted her, and Mrs. Filch with no family to take her in. Once the house was put right, Kenna and Grania were enrolled in the local 'ladies school', Derry and Quinn entrusted to the care of a nurse.

At 13 years, I was in no way developing into a 'young lady'. My legs were over-long, my hands and feet outsized for the rest of me. My hair refused to be contained, frequently hanging in my face despite combs, ties and scarves applied in any number of ways. My teeth were long, as was my face, and my ears had the risible effect of sticking straight out. Add to all this a natural bookishness and reticence and it is easily understandable why I was considered 'odd'. Just as Beyvin still reigned as the beauty among we girls in the family, I proved to be the ugly duckling, without promise of the miraculous metamorphosis to be seen.

Dalston Junction had little of interest to keep me out of trouble, containing a botanical park, a lending library albeit a small one, a spa where one could 'take the waters', and markets of every stripe. The library proved a decisive disappointment offering few books and too many well-worn ladies magazines and newspapers. After one visit, I never went back.

It was not long before I was again wearing my brothers' clothing, my hair pushed up under a skally, slipping out of the butler's pantry window into nighttime Dalston. My initial midnight forays were concentrated upon the streets surrounding our home…a very 'rural' area consisting of open land and few trees, containing very little wildlife. It was a less than satisfying foray.

The decision to go out during the day to explore was made possible only because my mother now spent her days at the shop, leaving Quinn and Derry with the nurse. Kenna and Grania were in school until 4 o'clock. My chores done by the noon meal, I soon had my clothes changed and was out the side door, sixpence in hand for the Omnibus.

I walked along the wide, tree-shaded sidewalks, enjoying the novelty of being out in the sunshine dressed in my evening regalia. The streets were newly paved with granite plates mortared between with concrete and sand liberally spread overall…a wonder to my eyes. The buildings along Kingsland were businesses and open markets interspersed with the newly built 'up-and-down' row houses of brand-new red brick, with real trees potted in amongst the brick and concrete raised walks. There were flower boxes at many windows, the people to be seen were friendly and dressed neatly. The costermongers that walked the streets hawking their wares even looked prosperous enough.

Most of Dalston Junction, however, was still fairly rural and the predominant smell was that of animals and associated effluvia. Cattle were stabled behind many homes as well as pigs, horses and the occasional sheep. Sewerage was dealt with as it had always been, and in some of the back streets the smell overwhelmed that of the more pleasant animal manure.

Although London was in the process of installing city-wide sewerage containment, as engineered by the redoubtable Mr. Bazalgette, the first of its massive pumps was not slated to go into operation until 1864, leaving the majority of London's filth to be dumped into the Thames, or as in the outskirts and suburbs…in the streets and gutters. The effect was palpable the further south into London one went.

The first time I rode the Omnibus was both thrilling and terrifying. I chose to ride on the top…on the 'garden seat', in order to escape the close inspection of the interior customers, and rode the 'bus down Kingsland through Shoreditch, Islington, and Regent's Park among many other places. I did this several days in a row, choosing a different 'bus each time, riding it to its terminus and back. This familiarized me with the general layout of northeast London, and I eventually felt I could walk instead of ride the snail's crawl the Omnibuses offered, and not get hopelessly lost.

It was whilst exploring the outskirts of Hoxton that I made the connection that would set the pattern for the next years.

Being well aware that Hoxton had a very bad reputation, I chose to visit its environs during the afternoon when shops were open and the main streets busy…Hoxton was not someplace I wished to be caught at night. There was a bookseller shop there along Canal Street that was reported to have books both arcane and scientific, and my interest was piqued by that word "arcane". Once I had finished my chores, I changed clothes, I put my few remaining coins in my pocket and raided Mrs. Fitch's larder on the way out the back door. I walked down Kingsland until it crossed the canal, then followed Canal Street heading west.

The businesses along Canal Street were every one depressingly shabby…used clothing, used furniture, used shoes and so on. No where did I see a bookseller's shop. Twice I walked the length of the business blocks without success. A trifle put out with the advertisement that had sent me on this wild goose hunt, I sat on a low stone wall, looking about and considering my next move. The sounds of laughter and taunting voices came from across the street, the majority of the players hidden by the corner of a tenement building. I could see one boy darting back and forth in a manner suggesting he was up to no good. Rising I walked closer and leaning against the wall, watched.

There was a young man standing with two infants…mere babies, hardly older than Quinn and Derry. And two boys…hardly older than I, were yelling and attempting to grab one of the infant's away.

The young man guarding the babies was stepping between the boys and their victims, pushing them away, flailing with his fists. The two boys were laughing and striking at the small children.

My first instinct was to get up and do something; it was natural for me to protect children, having had the responsibility of my younger siblings for so long. Firmly I told myself to turn and walk away. This was Hoxton…a district of London well known for the roughness of its inhabitants. I read the London Times every evening after my parents had finished with it. Hoxton figured large in body count and crime, along with Whitechapel, Bethnal Green, Seven Dials and most of the East End.

Even as I stood to leave, I found my feet pointed in the direction of the tussle, and throwing caution to the wind I sauntered toward the beleaguered little family. I stopped to stand next to the young man who was attempting to keep the wee ones safe from their attackers, immediately struck by the hollow appearance to his face, and the gaunt condition he and his charges all shared.

He seemed stunned when I faced the aggressors, sizing them up quite blatantly. They were both short, and not all that well fed either, and very dirty. Of course, I had discovered that a good majority of Londoners seemed to suffer from hydrophobia (fear of water), so I was growing used to the smells. Nonetheless, these two seemed to wear their funk like armor, and indeed, it would have normally kept me from touching them.

The grimiest of these two immediately began mouthing off to me, and I admit to finding it near incomprehensible. The main thrust of his tirade was obviously offensive, however. I listened and then said the only thing I thought reasonable. "Bugger off, why'nt you?"

They immediately began laughing, holding their stomachs, and pointing, highly amused by my heavy Irish accent. The grimiest…who must have been the gaffer of the two, again garbled something that sounded like, "Wotcha goin ta do eh? Haps ta bugger orf y'self ors I'z slap ya inta nex week."

Looking at them, I knew I outweighed them altogether, and could stop either one with one hand. Unfortunately, I strongly wished not to touch either of them, as I could see vermin scuttling amongst their shabby clothing.

The very thin young man spoke next before I could, and unfortunately it was just as incomprehensible. Then he turned to me, and said, in a less obtuse manner, "This ain't yer fight." His expression was not friendly.

I ignored him. Turning to the two malefactors, I repeated what I said last, inciting more hilarity. As expected, the largest of the two used the laughter to make a feint at my midsection with his fist; I grabbed his arm, yanked and twisted, dropping him facedown upon the broken and dirty sidewalk. With one boot planted hard in the middle of his upper back, I turned to the second. "I let him up, you go away. Got it? Else I'll break his arm." At that I put pressure on my prisoner's back and lightly twisted his arm. The shoulder joint bulged with the pressure, easily seen through the boy's near-transparent shirt. I honestly had no intention of causing him pain, but he moaned, saying, "Ere now, ezup yer breakin' me sure."

Alarmed I stepped back, and let go of his arm, unwilling to hurt anyone. I remembered well what Rogan and Kavenaugh taught me, however, keeping a eye on him, and sure enough, he came up swinging, with the other boy coming in on my right flank. For an instant I thought I was dished.

Stepping to the left, I kicked the feet from beneath my original foe, shoving him hard towards the second one; both went down hard. After a few seconds of swearing, they rolled up to their feet and slunk off, limping and cursing.

I rubbed my hands down the sides of my pants, feeling the slick/stickiness from the boy's dirty skin.

"So yer do'ent like the feel of 'em, aye? I'm thinkin' yer nawt from aroun' here."

I looked at the young man…and was surprised to note he was not near as old as I thought. What had appeared to be adult angulation to his features was merely starvation; his cheekbones were sharp over the hollow indents of his cheeks, and his eyes appeared to protrude so little fat and muscle was beneath the skin on his face. His chin was smooth, without the telltale shadow of adolescence, and his wrists stuck past his coat sleeves near to the elbows, leaving a long length of bony forearms naked. We were of a height…he may have had me by an inch. But I am sure I weighed twice as much.

Turning to the toddlers behind him, I reached into my coat pocket, then crouched and called them forward. "Here, take this." I held out the two fat cheese buns I'd stolen from Mrs. Fitch's larder before heading out the back door. Neither of the infants stepped one bit closer, eyeing me fearfully. The baby girl began chewing on her fingers, crying with frustration while staring at the bread.

"Here now, they won't be takin' that from you'."

Surprised, I looked up at the young man. "And why ever not? Its good…I just filched 'em this morning."

"Give 'em 'ere."

I stood and glared at him, snapping, "I mean them for the babies."

"They know better than to eat wot' a stranger would give 'em." He held out his hand and after a moment, I gave them to him. Briskly he pulled both buns apart, then nibbled a bit from each. "They's good, Sid. Share with yer sis, now." He put the pieces of one bun in the boy's hands, then shoved the other into his shirt pocket. At my frown, he said, "They get it all. Jus' not all at once."

"Oh…of course." Watching the infants suck and slather over the bread made my heart sick. Turning to the boy I said, "Are those two going to come back and make more trouble?" I looked up the street, but did not see anybody resembling the two bullies.

"Naw." After a moment staring at me, he stuck out his hand, saying, "My name is Badger. This 'ere is Sid, and 'is sister Nell." Both of the infants looked up at me, their faces wet from sucking the last of the bread from their dirty fingers.

I gave Badger my hand for a firm shake, saying, "Badger surely isn't your real name, is it?"

Badger smiled, a surprisingly sweet smile at that. "It's the name I 'ave. I noticed you're not quick to give yours neither."

I laughed, "Sure, and it isn't near so fine as 'Badger'." I noticed he was amused by my accent, but doing his best not to remark upon it. He was also staring hard at my face, giving my scally a good lookover. I had my hair shoved up under it, but had taken pains to tangle it as excessively as I could, then knot it in a queue before piling it atop my head and pulling the cap over. Badger's hair was cut short, no more than a ragged fringe hanging over his forehead. The two boys I'd run off had longer hair…but nasty stuff it was, too…dirty, knotted and matted.

I began to feel very self-conscious under the assessing look in Badger's eyes.

I nodded, saying, "I'm off home, then. I wandered farther than I should, and got no fare for the 'bus. I touched the brim of my cap in salute and turned to begin the walk back to Kingsland Road.

"Shanks."

I turned, not sure exactly what he'd said.

Smiling, he said, "You shouldn't be wanderin' about here. Next time yer' by, come to that wall right there." He pointed to a low stone I'd been occupying just a few minutes ago. "Just there, 'an I'll come by in a bit. Come at about this time…don't be wanderin' about by yerself, Shanks."

I frowned, growling, "I get by fine by 'meself, Badger."

He just nodded, adding, "And Shanks…don' wear that hat 'lest you wish someone to knock it off. You look far too fine for Hoxton." Grabbing the infants' hands he led them away. Resolutely I started for Kinglands Street, too aware of the setting sun.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Badger introduced me to the four other boys that made up his crew, and within a month of moving to Dalton Junction, I was a dashboy. Naturally, I found it necessary to make changes in my dress and appearance. Although the clothing I had worn that first day were in no way 'new', I chose a pair of Caley's old grey canvas work pants from the mending, cut them short and ragged them at the bottom so they stopped mid-shin. A shirt liberated from the rag basket went over a worn undershirt; old socks and a battered colorless pair of Caley's brogans looked much more the part. A piece of cord held up the pants, and another held my knife scabbard tied around my waist.

There was still one thing that needed doing. I was just dreading the hell-storm that could well descend upon my head once I'd done the deed.

One afternoon I shut myself into the bedroom I now shared with Kenna, and gathering my hair into two thick coils, I cut it just below the level of my jaw, then ragged the edges severely. Parting it in the middle, I looked at myself in the mirror and saw…_Shanks_. A horse-faced boy, with oversized teeth and ears. Spending time outside with the two mares who occupied the large paddock behind the garden had already put a spray of freckles across my nose and cheeks. Sawing off the russet-blonde mass of hair had removed just one more clue to my gender.

I was able to keep my secret until supper; I came to table with my head down, expecting to leave it soon thereafter with my ears ringing.

My mother said nothing, merely scanning the result and returning to her supper with a sigh. Rogan snickered, his mouth full, and Kenna and Grania stared. Caley shook his head, and I heard him say, "Saints preserve us…" under his breath.

My father said nothing, looking me over, his eyes cold, lips tight. If I had hoped for comment…some verbal reaction…I was to be disappointed. His silence was unbroken.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I loved working the theaters; I loved the dash. The boys I hung about…Badger, Fetch, Dog, Raja, Punch…all had proved loyal friends and totally blind oblivious to the reality that I was a girl. I expect as I had come from Ireland they took my occasional feminine gaffs as being typical of my home country, just as we did for Raja and his West Indian ways.

My naiveté must have been appalling to the more street-aware boys; too often I found myself struck silent by an abomination against morality, humanity and decency…only to find I was alone in that state as it was apparently a common occurrence…nothing unusual at all.

Three times a week I would take the evening omnibus down Kingsland Road to the narrow street that fronted the St. Leonard's workhouse in Hoxton and walk to the small empty lot adjacent to the Ragged School. Waiting there would be the crew, sitting on the roof of an old carriagehouse, where we would wait for dark while sharing whatever food and drink we had. In the general discussion of their daily life, I gleaned what wisdom I lacked…finding my personal Encyclopedia of London Life becoming a weighty tome indeed. But it was experience that proved the best teacher, the lesson frequently driven home with ruthless efficacy.

I'd learned to avoid the next grimy, weeping infant seen leaning against the side of a closed shop, losing only a few pence, but all regard for those of tender years. I ran afoul of a girl my age who took me for a flat seeking feminine company. When I denied interest in her grimy, shopworn charms with far too much emphasis, she attacked me with nails and teeth, even her toenails proving formidable weapons. I escaped her only by the intervention of one of the regular girls at a nearby brothel.

There were far too many girls my age who had been lifting their skirts for pay for _years._

The street whores were terrifying in general, a fact driven home to me at regular intervals. Unlike the girls from the houses, women who worked the streets were desperate, usually sick and diseased, with no hope of salvation offered them. Making eye contact was never a good idea, and the one time I succumbed to pity and actually gave one my nights earnings…a mere fistful of coppers…the ensuing fracas served to keep my hands…and coins…in my pockets.

Throughout London all decent men and women labored and lived in the relative light of day; but after the sun was well set and the streets dark, it became the domain of the working children. Even the whores, grifters, gypsies and barkers all kept to the light of the gas lamps, but scuttling small forms moved in the dark, plying their trades as dashers, messengers, delivery churls and waterboys, the dark offering the only safety.

Some were homeless, their parents gone or dead. Some supported entire households, every copper going to whatever adult kept the home. All were shifty and dirty, their clothing never good enough to be taken from them. Too many were barefoot…some bandaged their feet in rags in the colder months, but many used them to cover their necks and ears instead.

There were children of all ages. Children delivering food, booze, and other less savory items from sellers to buyers, running between the men's clubs, opium dens and brothels and betting cribs, haunting the theaters, variety houses and restaurants selling papers, matches and fruit. Children minding the horses for those attending entertainments, sometimes standing in the freezing rain, wind, and snow for hours. There were five year olds already well versed in the hazards of living on the streets; mere toddlers who were capable of nicking your watch and wallet whilst crying they were lost.

And if I learned anything at all, it was that I was the most fortunate of children, blessed beyond credence despite my being an unerring lightning-rod for destruction and misfortune for my family. Half of the boys in the crew lived in desperate poverty, their small earnings supporting in part or wholly their family. Badger watched his sister's babies whilst she worked during the day at a laundry house in Clerkenwell, then he worked every night himself. Punch and Dog both could tell the same story. Raj came from an intact home, but his father had recently suffered a stroke, and although his family was still self-supporting, Raj needed the employment to afford to continue his education. Fetch and I seemed the luckiest of fellows, working more to keep out of our parents' eye than any great need. Fetch came from a middleclass trademen home; he chipped his nights' earnings into the family pot nonetheless. I said only that I lived with my brothers and worked towards an apprentice license to become a cordwainers or sadler.

Actually, nobody pressed for details, understanding none of us would be doing what we did without some compelling reason.

We were frequent targets of 'good spirits' among the university set, and even I found myself surrounded by a group of drunken youths a time or two; by then I knew one kept one's head covered and watched for an opening. I knew better than to pull my knife: cutting a swell, especially a well-breeched one, was never a good idea. More than one poor soul found that defending oneself against those 'better' meant a fast trip to prison…or worse.

The knives were actually mostly window dressing anyway…a required bit of the uniform amongst the crowd of boys who worked the theater and club districts at night. If a knife was to be used, you did so against the criminals who also worked the theater and club districts: the barkers, pimps and fanners who saw us as being nothing but targets. Of course, taking the few pennies we'd pocketed over the night was one thing; rape or grabbing a boy or two for sale to the navy or the 'drake' houses on Benjamin Street…that was another. And it happened…too damned often.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is all catch chapters…things that should have been posted some time ago, but I could not finish them and the 'current' action too. But this stuff is about Aislyne, so it is important to ME.

'Reviews would be nice.


	62. Chapter Sixty One

**Chapter Sixty One**

My right hand had gone numb and was turning a mottled blue. My left was in some discomfort, but that was because I had been flexing it against the leather cords encircling my wrists, stretching them. I knew leather stretched because my stirrup leathers, which were made of thick, good quality English leather, stretched.

My goal was to work slack into my bonds so that I might twist my left hand enough to slip it into my right pocket…where rested my scabbarded knife. Once I had the knife I could cut the leather cords, and reach the second pistol hidden upon my person.

Flexing away, I listened to the Persian devil laughing and joking with the one remaining guard…whose name was Jegger. Apparently Hashim and Jegger were now bosom beaux, having agreed that depravity and murder were the best possible of all amusing pursuits.

Delcort was in the parlour with me, staring out the window, gnawing at his thumb. Frequently he paced about the room, and never once did he remark upon the odd position I had taken in the chair, or notice my efforts at defeating my bonds. His inattention seemed…deliberate.

The man was not happy, and given the opportunity I swore to ratchet his anxiety level higher. At that moment, however, he ignored me completely as I worked vigorously at the leather.

With a pop one of the cords actually broke, and it was all I could do not to break into a 'hallelujah' of astonished delight. After working one end round my wrists I started loosening up the remaining coils. Hearing Delcort curse, I slipped the broken ends out of sight just as he spun about to pace across the room and stop before me.

"You say this…gentleman…your patient…has left Lyon. Where has he gone, exactly?"

Giving him the 'ward matron' stare, I said, "Why would I tell you that?"

"I could beat it out of you, you know." This was accompanied by a rather contrived sneer.

I simply raised an eyebrow. Eduard Delcort was not the physical type, whatever he threatened, much preferring to smote his enemies with his hum-merchant's logic…and apparently even that failed him today. When he said nothing further I looked to the door, and assumed an air of waiting.

We stayed like that for several silent minutes, Delcort brooding at the window, his expression petulant. From another room I heard the woman who had brought the tea give a shriek, and begin loudly sobbing, followed by the obnoxious howls of laughter from Hashim and Jegger.

Turning to Delcort, I said, "He'll kill you, you know. When he finds Bouchard is not here in Lyon, he will kill you, and then disappear. He is, after all, an assassin."

Delcort snapped, "Don't be silly; I am his business partner…without me he would be _lost_ here in France. He won't kill me."

"Oh, but he will once he realizes he has lost the prize, and must slink back to Persia empty-handed. I would think he knows the way back _home_." I nodded and continued. "Nadir Kahn told me all about your friend Zamir. He said Hashim routinely murders any witnesses to an assassination…whether the mission is successful or not. No one works with Zamir ibn Hashim because 'partners' seldom live longer than the target."

When Delcort remained silent, I continued. "And he will be _very_ angry when Monsieur Bouchard does not appear to rescue me. The man has an ungovernable temper." Shrugging, I added, "In fact, we are both dead, unless Nadir Kahn gets here first."

Delcort crossed his arms and gave me a arch look. "And you expect this Kahn to ride to your rescue, do you? Hashim says your Kahn is only a tired old man."

Again I raised my chin, displaying the confidence I did not feel. "Mr. Kahn hired me for the position as Monsieur Bouchard's nurse, and I believe I know him well enough…certainly better than Hashim. He may act like an old man when it suits, but there is a reason he continues to be a very capable agent for the _Sûreté Nationale_. I think he is more than a match for your friend out there molesting the cleaning woman."

Delcort snorted, but I could see I was hitting my mark, although he was not going down easily. After a moment of brooding, Delcort declared, hubris restored, "I have no reason to fear either Hashim or your Mr. Kahn. Hashim _needs_ me…I put the money forward to finance this little jaunt, and he owes me great deal that can't be repaid until we set your man's head before the Shah."

I might have gone a trifle pale at that, but pushed the thought away vigorously, determined to keep my composure. Delcort continued, his arrogance restored. "And _I shot no one,_ dear lady. I may have watched as Zamir liberally perforated your man Chanson…tough devil he was! But I quite properly advised him it was a criminal act. It is, however, no crime to watch men die. Your Kahn can't touch me!" Delcort grinned.

If I could have done so at that moment, I would have bloodied the arrogant git's nose. Instead I snarled, "You were there…you allowed your _protégé_ to gun down Thom Xavier, and torture Dietre Chanson...both unarmed men!" I had to stop, feeling the heat begin to gather in my face, the red to fill my vision…

"I did _nothing_ to those men. I was only a bystander. Surely the law..."

Shaking my head, I hissed, "You are just as guilty, Delcort. Accessory to murder has the same punishment as murder _here in France_. You have _murdered_ two French citizens, and have conspired to _murder_ yet another. I would not feel so very sure if I were you!"

Delcort's eyes had gone wide during this, and again he exclaimed, "I did nothing!"

I glared at him just long enough to deliver silent judgment on _that_ statement, then turned away to look at the doorway expectantly.

The man stomped to the window to resume chewing with greater industry upon his thumb. Likewise I began unwinding and loosening the cord about my wrists, my ears peeled for the return of Hashim. After a few minutes thought, I said, "Of course, if you were to help me escape…deliver me to Investigator Kahn safe, I would be happy to help a fellow Brit avoid the guillotine."

Delcort spun and gasped, stammering, "I..I don't think… I mean…the _guillotine_?"

The abject horror on his face actually made me feel better. Mentally grinning like Bouchard's mad angel, I continued. "I have recently been in a French prison to consult upon a patient. I know I would far rather the guillotine than forty years spent in a squalid hole with cutthroats and degenerates. But of course, you may not be given a choice…"

I wondered that Delcort did not notice the number of passes about my wrists had reduced by half, and those loose. Feigning a move to ease discomfort, I slumped against the right arm of the chair to cover the evidence of my efforts. My right hand was tingling as full circulation returned, my wrist beginning to throb; I flexed it, attempting to speed return of function, hoping it would be recovered enough to hold the pistol when the moment presented…

The front door of the _pension_ opened and shut; Hashim appeared in the hallway followed by Jegger. The guard sent to deliver news of my kidnapping had returned and a low-voiced discussion ensued…and apparently the report was not satisfactory. Suddenly Hashim struck the guard across the head with the butt of the red-jacket pistol, knocking him off his feet. Shouting in the infernal language only he and Erik seemed to understand, the demon heaped rage upon the guard now cowering upon the floor, blood dripping from his forehead down his tunic.

Jegger stood a step behind his employer and grinned at his fellow guard's ill-fortune.

It would seem the message of my capture had not been successfully delivered to Kahn.

Delcort moved to watch the proceedings in the hallway, his expression grim. For several minutes it looked as if Hashim was preparing to deal with one potential witness this very instant, waving the red-jacket pistol inches from the head of the unfortunate groveling on the floor of the hallway, still screaming in Farsi.

I held my breath, remembering Eleanor's words: "…_folks call them 'suicide guns' because the damned things blow apart at the first shot…are more likely to kill the person holding it as the intended target_."

Could it possibly end so neatly, that the maniac would kill himself by pulling the trigger?

Apparently not. Shoving the pistol back in his pocket, Hashim turned and looked…at me. Pointing, he said, "If we must drag her naked through the streets to get Aeshema's attention, this we will do!"

The throbbing pain of awakening tissues was eclipsed by the rush of absolute horror his words conferred. I jerked my wrists free of the now-slack twists of cord and vacated the chair, madly flailing my right hand as I circumvented the parlor, seeking escape.

There was nowhere to run…no escape; the parlor had no exit save through the demon now standing in the doorway.

Hashim laughed at the look of hot indignation Jegger sent my way. "Did I not tell you this woman is clever? Never fear…we will reward her _most appropriately_ for her cleverness, _doostam_ (my friend)."

Clapping Jegger upon the shoulder, Hashim started towards me, the wide, wicked smile across his ugly face changing into something I wish never, ever to see again. The inner chorus that had served as infernal accompaniment for the preceding events was quite suddenly still…utterly silent.

Frantically I reached behind me with both arms, attempting to thrust my right hand under the huge bow that covered the demi-bustle. Cushioned within the bustle's pillow of wool-duff padding lay the small, elegant ivory-handled Colt revolver holstered in leather, needing only the flick of a finger to release it to my _right _hand. Unfortunately that hand was afire with returning circulation and painfully sprained wrist, unable to grasp anything…it was _not_ accessible from the left. Short of dropping my skirt and skinning it about so I could pull the pistol with my left hand, I was thwarted.

On the plus side, my gyrations had stopped the Persian's advance, his murderous expression overcast by one of startled confusion.

At that very instant I heard Erik's voice from the hallway behind Jegger…

"You will let Miss Butler go."

Every head swiveled to see Jegger standing in the doorway of the parlor, his face purpurate from the large hand wrapped tightly about the front of his throat. Towering over the hapless guard, Erik's eyes were chips of artic green, the heated blood of his rage turning the scarified side of his face a deep, candescent red.

He was the Angel of Death.

For a moment his gaze found mine and I felt all joy at his presence wither. There was no warmth for the woman who had lain with him just hours before. I'd made a fool of him and he was not like to forget it. I was noted and dismissed.

His eyes focused with near-carnal excitement upon the hateful man who moments before assured me my demise would be painful and public.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blinded by the lashing rain, I must trust John's feet to keep us from grief on the flooded streets and muddy paths. I cling as best I might to his wet back, hands tangled in thick mane, a head collar and long leather strap serving as bridle…the best I could do in my furious haste.

I debate whether strangling Aislyne Mhaire Butler our first morning on the Pullman would have saved a great deal of pain and humiliation for us both. I would never have tasted sun-lit freedom and adult love…obviously meant never to be more than a taste anyway.

And she'd have been spared the horror and pain of Zamir Ibn Hashim's brutal attentions. I dwell for an agony of seconds on what Zamir will do to her…IS doing to her.

Leaning closer upon John's neck, I ask him to go a bit faster despite the slick and muddy ground beneath his feet, and gamely he gives what I ask, his unshod feet cutting divots in the park's greensward.

Of course, the woman chose this course, and I am so enraged with her duplicity I could…_could strangle her_! "I wish this one day…" she pleads, the entire time knowing _exactly_ what she means to do. And what, exactly she intended to do once she confronted Hashim is what confounds me for several moments. Would she offer money? Herself?

No…but of course _she was going to kill him_. Having begged me to delay my own assault, she proceeds to mount her own. The fool…the twice-damned idiot! I feel helpless tears form but they wash away before they can ever touch my face. Did she mean to survive the endeavor…or sacrifice herself…flawed and soulless as she is…for me?

That thought drives me mad. I know I would shake her until her teeth rattled if ever she had expressed such sentiment to my face.

But I will never know…will never have the opportunity to beat or throttle or shake the truth from Madame Butler, damn her sweet green eyes, however much I might wish to. It will all end today. I do not believe I will walk away from this last encounter with Zamir Ibn Hashin, and I vow he will not.

I intend that Aislyne does, and in this one last thing I will prevail.

In minutes we are in the alleyway behind Bras d'Oro and its stable, where I slip off of John's back. Leading him into a dry box stall, I pat the gelding fondly, and pull the Daroga's heavy cloak closer about me. Sliding around the side of the stable, I work my way past the back wall, shuttered side windows and open areas to the pension's meager front ground. Keeping to the far side of the cracked and worn front steps, I stay low and creep to the wide, glass-lit entry door.

I hear Hashim's voice screaming invective in near-incoherent Farsi even before I ease open the heavy door and slip through the small foyer, stopping just short of the intersecting hallway. It is obvious Hashim is down the hall to the left; easing one eye past the dusty faux palm that decorates the foyer, I see Hashim waving about a pistol, a man lying upon the floor, hands thrown up over his head.

Shoving the pistol into a pocket, Zamir turns away to point at someone in a room further down the hallway. Through the open door I see a woman's seated figure, her face hidden behind Zamir's form. The woman's hands are tied to the arm of the chair.

For several seconds I reiterate the sum of Aislyne's iniquities on this day, burning through the softer feelings that might temper my outrage. Her life hinges upon Zamir ibn Hashim's acceptance that she means _nothing_ to me, and is merely a very foolish woman…beneath his notice.

Advancing upon the captive, Zamir roars, "If we must drag her naked through the streets to get Aeshema's attention, this we will do!"

The next instant the 'tied' woman slips her hands from loosened bonds and leaps out of her chair. It _is_ Aislyne! With a clutch to my heart, I see she is wide-eyed with terror, fluttering her hands about in a most singular fashion.

Enough. It is time to end this farce. Slipping by the man lying upon the hallway floor, I see it is one of Hashim's guardsmen. I motion to him to stay down and keep quiet, both of which he indicates he is overjoyed to do.

Moving up behind the guardsman standing in the doorway watching events in the room before us, I am able to silence him completely; a quick search of his person provides me with no weapon, however. For a moment I consider the odds: I have no weapon other than my hands, Hashim has a gun in his pocket, and Aislyne. A bluff seems the best I can do.

Keeping the throttled guardsmen before me, I begin the performance with the initial ante, speaking loudly to insure I am heard: "You may let Miss Butler go."

When Hashim twists about to look at me, I continue in Farsi: "The foolish woman has no part in this, _baradar_. (brother). You have me…allow her to go."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hearing Erik's voice…knowing he was here…here!…how bittersweet. How I had wished for one more moment with him, yet how very much I now wished he was miles away. For one instant I had actually begun to believe my own eloquent bit of humbug…that he was gone, far away from Lyon, traveling to his new life. _Safe!_

Jegger's knees sagged, and Erik allowed the man to fall heavily to the floor. I was glad to see Jegger's chest rise and fell…albeit spastically…as unconsciously he attempted to drag air into his swollen throat.

Erik stepped over the man, and again his eyes flicked my way, his expression anything but warm, then moved to glare at Hashim. He spoke next in the barbaric tongue that only he and Hashim understood, his voice a satin blade.

Hashim reacted immediately, pulling the pistol from his pocket and his left hand snatching my right wrist before I could react. Jerking me about, he snarled, "The woman stays with me!"

I cried out in agony, an honest reaction to the sudden twist inflicted upon an already painful wrist joint.

What happened next serves as my worst nightmare to this very day.

With an inarticulate roar Erik threw himself toward Hashim. The small pistol in Hashim's hand swept up and fired, a strangely muted 'pop' the result. Erik slammed into the Persian, and both went down, Hashim's grip on my wrist releasing as he swept up his arms to fend off his attacker.

I staggered back, and mindlessly renewed attempts to fish the small Colt from the bustle; this time I was successful, able to keep it in hand by virtue of snagging the trigger ring with one finger. Clasping it in my left hand, I thrust it out towards the bodies on the floor…

Only to see Hashim shove Erik's lifeless form away, and wipe blood from his cheek…blood that was obviously not his.

Erik lay upon his back, eyes closed, a bloody line creasing his forehead, blood oozing from a dark spot at the edge of his right temple. Erik had been shot. Erik was…

Stunned, I fell to my knees. My Erik lay dead. A hollow agony began somewhere below my throat, and grew exponentially, overtaking my heart…my being…my world…

Hashim began laughing…hysterically, loudly…throwing his head back and bellowing with mirth. Still kneeling, I watched him as he moved to stand over Erik's poor, battered head, mouth wide, as the sound of his laughter filled the room.

Still grinning widely, Hashim looked up for Delcort, bellowing. "I need a knife! I need a knife to take his head." Delcort was at the window most distant from the gristly _tableau vivant_, his face grey, hands shaking.

I pushed back to my feet, and raised the pistol in both hands, sighting upon the particularly ugly mole that inhabited the space between the Persian demon's thick eyebrows.

Looking at me…at the pistol…Hashim again burst into laughter, holding his hands across his chest and stomach. "You…you… Have we not tried this before, woman?" Then his expression twisted into one of malevolence, and he demanded, "Put the gun down, _salope_!"

I squeezed the trigger of the Colt, doing so carefully timed between breaths to insure my aim. The roar of the shot in the enclosed space seemed to dim the gaslights overhead; my ears rang from the concussion. And for a brief instant Hashim appeared to realize I had indeed shot him this time, his eyes rolling up as if to see where the ugly mole no longer protruded.

I remember nothing more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I grew up drinking beer, having daily enjoyed a small mug from the cask my father kept chilled in the wellhouse. Beer was considered a healthy alternative to water, and children frequently imbibed a ha'pint at the local public house along with their parents. There was nothing so tasty as a mug of beer pulled cool from the cask, after a hot day spent mucking stalls and paddocks on the farm.

On holy days and at family celebrations, children were allowed a glass of country wine with dinner, although the youngest had theirs watered. My mother made her own wine for years, having learned the art from her father. Grandda Muldoon had the best public house for miles 'round, famous for the beer and wine he brewed himself, and serving only the best pure pot still whiskey from the Middleton Distillery in Cork.

Mam kept a large bottle of the local Redbreast whiskey in her kitchen, and I and my siblings were dosed a dram or two many times for pain or illness when we were young. This was the accepted treatment then for many childhood ills, such as the pain of erupting teeth and broken bones, menstrual cramps, and mixed with a hot tea of honey, comfrey and ginger for bronchial congestion and fever.

My father had always been a temperate man, who frequently reminded his sons that, "Whiskey makes a fool of the wisest." In all my childhood years at Ballinhassig, I had never seen my father drink more than a pint or two of anything stronger than beer, though alcohol in every form was customary at every public celebration and major family function.

And so alcohol in all its permutations is no stranger to me, and I will admit to using it infrequently as a way to soothe my own nerves and distempered emotions. Old habits die hard, and my raising had never prepared me to see the harm in any of it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time I was 15 years, I towered over most of my crew, nearing the 6-foot mark. My brothers were still taller, although Caley and I were near eye-to-eye, and naturally my father was half a head above me. My mother, being a good five inches shorter now demanded I get on my knees when she thought to belabor me on one sin or another just as she did the boys; I spent some time kneeling before her, as I surely had sins a'many.

Running to and fro had the affect of skinning the fat off my backside and belly, and spending the majority of my wakeful hours at night faded most of the sun-color from my face. I looked different, nearly elfin, with eyes too big, and ears that absolutely sported calf-like points. I learned to avoid my mirror.

I believe my parents suspected my nighttime forays; more than once I prayed they would say something…bar me from leaving…demand to know what I was doing…usually after I had faced danger or run afoul of someone particularly scary of a night. Beyond a demand to neaten the shabby haircut, or the occasional questioning by Kenna as to what I was up to three nights a week, nobody said anything.

One evening, however, as I delivered the written requests for girls to the proprietor of Baxter House, I was pulled aside by Mrs. Baxter herself, with the alarming request to meet with her 'for a moment' in her office. Mrs. Baxter was yet another married woman with no spouse to be seen. For all that, she was a gentlewoman in dress and manner, never raising her voice to the girls, and by report running one of the better houses.

Pulled into her office, Mrs. Baxter closed the door and moved to stand behind her small desk. "Remove your trousers, boy."

I think my eyes must have bulged from my head, aghast with what I had heard…and from whom it come. Clutching my (properly worn and tattered) skally to my breast, I stuttered, "Wha…what d'ya mean, Mum?"

Mrs. Baxter sent one well-groomed eyebrow high above the other and repeated her request. "I requested you remove your pants, sir."

For several long moments we locked gazes, her lips stretching into a small upward bow whilst my entire face turned a bright vermilion. With a small nod, she came 'round her desk and laid one hand upon my right nascent breast...I jumped near a foot off the floor, and made to push past her and escape from the small room.

"Stop this instant." I did as bade, but I could now feel a chill sweat breaking upon my brow.

Mrs. Baxter spoke softly, but every word was a nail pounded in the coffin of my two-year masquerade. "You can no longer pretend, my dear. I've watched you for months…and worried sick that someone besides me would see what you were. Do you realize what would happen to you if you were found out by one of the houses by the Abelard or down on Catherine Street?"

I attempted to speak, but Mrs. Baxter was not finished, and hushed me fiercely. "Tonight is your last night, my darling girl. Tell your crew goodbye and GO HOME. Do not come back, nor will you go further afield to find another place to pretend in this…" and here she swept her eyes up my tattered costume, "…this farce. It is time you accepted the fact that you are now a young woman, and far too old to play games."

I had tears sleeting down my face. This woman had noticed me, worried over me, and was, in effect, saving me from my own headlong self destruction. After a moment spent swiping the skully across my suitably-dirty face, I snuffed carefully and said, "Yes, ma'am."

Mrs. Baxter patted my face. Then opening the door, she pressed an entire shilling piece into my hand. "If anyone asks, tell them I offered you a job as my message boy, but you refused it."

I ran all the way back to Fanny's to join up with the crew. At the end of the evening I added the shilling to the pot, then pressed all of my earnings into Badger's hands. "Split it with the rest, I don't care. This is my last evening with you all as we're moving again." I pulled my skully low and ran all the way back to Dalston.

My nights in the London streets were done.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Adolescence was a struggle, especially as I had no template to model myself upon; Beyvin was in Ireland, now pregnant with the second heir to the destitute Barony Van Cliffe. My mother was absolutely disinterested in taking her troublesome daughter in hand. As my body made all the expected changes save one, I spent my time with the two broodmares in our pasture, having saddle trained both and field jumping the youngest.

One glorious fall Rogan, Caley and I rode with one of the local hunts, and I am ashamed to say I rode in _men's_ full hunt dress, eschewing the effort to learn to ride sidesaddle. There were a good many women in the hunt, and all rode sidesaddle naturally…but I just could not see how it was ultimately safe. This did not last long…too soon my brothers found greater interest in starting up their own carriage building concern, Rogan having taken several instructive classes at a local labor shop. Without my brothers, I could not continue.

With the addition of Derry's school fees, my mother chose to let the nurse go, and I was again the primary provider of childcare. I had Quinn every day, took the girls to school at 9, and picked them up at 4 o'clock. Three days a week I drove the ponycart to the shop so that Mam could spend time with the girls and play with Quinn.

On these days I was expected to take over whatever task needed done, be it the accounts and correspondence, or more frequently that of acquainting the three year olds to basic driving commands while wearing harness and pulling a drag. My father broke them to saddle, and to the cart, considered too dangerous a task for a young woman, but I finished quite few in whatever discipline chosen.

The livery business was a success because Ballinhassig Farm's name was behind it. My father's horses fetched high prices once they were trained, but from birth to sale, horses were usually four years old, representing a substantial investment in time and care. Likely colts were sent over from Ballinhassig at three years with most of their groundwork done: leading, basic commands, lifting feet, allowing handling and farrier work.

It was left to my parents to finish them to saddle or harness including at least 90 days of actual work on the streets of London as bonded teams. My father did not sell to job-masters or rental liveries in principle, advertising his horses were bred to be useful for twice as long as any job-horses. Understand that the average lifespan for London horses was single digit, beginning when they were less than two and still growing, with most going to the knackers lame and broken after serving five long hard years betwixt the shafts.

The leather shop was not doing as well, primarily because the two gentlemen hired to produce could neither one stand the other and fought constantly. Output was slow, although of the highest quality, and harnesses with the Cannon Street Leather stamp was considered superior to the stuff horse-jobbers and rental liveries offered.

By the third year it was apparent that my father was failing the business, having succumbed to the evils of drink. We all knew he was drinking to excess, but it had at first been kept to the hours after the horses were fed and stabled and the shop closed for the night. He would eat his dinner immediately upon arriving home and adjourn to his bedroom.

My parents slept apart these days, a fact not unnoticed by their children.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Increasingly my mother requested I come to the shop midday and work in the office whilst she worked with the horses with my father. No one was going to intimate she was working the horses _in lieu_ of my father, although that was exactly what was happening. Rogan was now 'roading' them, putting that last month of driving experience on them to insure they knew their jobs. No saddle horses were being worked at present, although several were already sold, awaiting their final polish.

Sitting in the small office I could hear my parents talking, my mother's voice a whisper to keep from awakening the napping Quinn. "Go home. Call a cab, and go sleep off the whiskey. You do us no good here today."

My father grunted. "You're like to nag me t' me grave…like your mother, you are. P'haps I should jus' go back to Ballinhassig. Man can drink there, no damn women t' shame him for it."

"Connor you shame yourself. You need to sort this out, my love. I need your help here."

"I've done my shot t'day. I'm weary." Pushing up from the desk where he sat, he cast one angry look Mam, and a long glare at me, and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

After a bit my mother rose and stood at the window looking over the paddocks. There were the sounds indicating a horse being worked in the round paddock, the snap of a whip and pounding of scrambling hooves.

"God save us, he's trying to kill that bay colt." I heard my mother's soft whisper, and instantly stood to join her at the window.

Da was staggering about in the paddock attempting to catch the large bay gelding newly come from Ballinhassig. The youngster was understandably reluctant to allow Da close, as he was cursing, smelling of alcohol, and lurching about in a frightening way. And every time Da would attempt to approach the colt and it bolted away, my father would begin beating it with the long driving whip, laying it upon the youngsters back and shoulders with a will. Twice the colt went down, losing its footing in the soft dirt of the pen whilst trying to avoid the whip. My father's efforts with the whip redoubled, driving the horse back up, sending it flying about the pen. I could hear my father's inarticulate curses even through the closed window.

I knew exactly who Da wished was racing about that pen…who he wanted most to lay that whip upon. But instead an innocent animal was taking the punishment for me.

No more.

Grabbing my skirts in both hands, I ran out of the office, down the stairs and out of the shop; racing across the yard I yanked open the gate to the paddock where my father was still swinging the whip at the wild-eyed bay colt. I threw the gate wide; the colt was wise enough to head for it immediately, thundering out into the yard and heading as far away from the angry whip as fast as he could.

I looked to my father; he stood dumbfounded, his jaw loose in his puffy, grey-skinned face. For a long moment our eyes locked, and I felt his sorrow, his pain, his loss.

His hate…

Walking to the center of the pen I grabbed the neck of my dress and ripped it and my chemise open, popping every button on the back from nape to waist. Jerking it clear of my back, I knelt in the dirt, my naked flesh to my father.

"I am who you wish to punish, Da…that wee colt's done naught to you. I am the reason you no longer live in Ireland. It was me who set the parish against us. I never meant to hurt you…never meant to hurt anyone." The growing pressure in my chest made further speech impossible; soundlessly…breathlessly I wept as swirling black dots and exploding suns rendered me blind. Gritting my teeth, I awaited the stinging slash of the whip.

It never came. I realized he had left, but I stayed as I was, sobbing spastically, praying for my father…praying for myself. I was still crying when Rogan's hands pulled my dress back over my shoulders and pulled me to my feet.

"Stop crying, Ails. You don't deserve this…you've done nothing wrong."

"He hates me, Rogan…hates me. It is all my fault…he misses home and it is my fault."

Rogan pulled me tightly against him, sweeping the ill-behaved hair from my wet, sticky face. "He hates himself, Ails. He blames himself for the grievous things done to you and Mam. He thinks he ran away instead of standing up to them like a man." Rogan grunted. "As if such a thing were possible!"

Wiping my face upon the slightly grubby handkerchief Rogan pressed into my hands, I listened to him…but nothing could have convinced me that my father blamed himself for any of this. And well he shouldn't…the blame was mine to bear.

Rogan walked me to the shop where my mother stood in the doorway; I kept my eyes to the ground, unwilling to meet those of my mother. Yet when she spoke to me her voice was soft…a timbre I had not heard directed toward me for years. "Aislyne, put on this sweater, and Rogan will drive you and Quinn home." I looked up to see something surprising in my mother's eyes…compassion.

Carefully I looked behind her into the shop door. "Where is Da? Is he all right? Mam…_I'm so sorry_…I have upset him terribly!" My mother laid one hand upon my cheek, saying, "Enough, Aislyne. Go home. We'll talk later."

Rogan turned me towards the cart where I saw Quinn sitting on the bench, pretending to drive May Queen, who stood patiently before the cart, ears relaxed. "And the colt…he'll surely be lost if we do not go after him."

I was given a solid push by Rogan, directing me to the cart. "I'll do that directly, once I have you and Quinn home." Meekly I hopped up into the back of the cart, pulling the sweater closer about me. Rogan moved to the front and pulled himself up onto the bench, pushing Quinn over with his hip.

May Queen moved forward at Rogan's soft command, and we swung about, turning in the broad court to start home. I turned to look back…and saw the flames in the upstairs office…saw flames already coming through the roof…saw them coming over the roof from the other side. I screamed at Rogan to stop; my mother looked at me for a long moment, then turned to look up.

Throwing myself from the cart I ran toward my mother, but was stopped by the sight of my father standing at the window looking down at me. The dancing flames behind him…around him…made it impossible to see his expression. Then he seemed to fall backward…step backward…lost in the boiling smoke and fire.

My mother screamed, and I turned to see Rogan holding her arm, stopping her from running into the building. Angrily she demanded he release her…and he did, his face wild.

My mother turned to me, saying, "Take care of the children, Aislyne. They are yours now." My mother turned and ran into the shop building. That is the last time I saw my parents.

I had ultimately killed them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Please review…

And don't think the story is over…'cause its not.


	63. Chapter Sixty Two

Chapter Sixty Two

In a burst of bureaucratic efficacy, Lyon, France dropped all charges against me. A very deceased Zamir ibn Hashim was held responsible for the deaths of three French citizens, and his death ruled justifiable homicide. I was told much later by an impeccable source that his body was shipped to Tehran as demanded by the Shah…but nobody wanted it once it got there.

The ambassadors of England and France traded strong words, then focused their attention upon the Persian Shah, Nazzier-e-Din, who was at that time actually touring England, enjoying the sea bathing at Weymouth, in Dorset. He claimed no knowledge of Hashim's mission to 'bring him Aeshema's head'. Mr. Kahn used rather strong language when repeating this to me, the gist of which revolved about the shah's penchant for intimacies with 'camels and dogs'.

I never saw Erik's body; my last memory of him was not one I enjoyed recalling. To this day I have nightmares in which I relive those last moments in the Bras D'Or parlour.

Nadir Kahn traveled with me back to Paris, holding my hand, patting it frequently, as I drifted in and out of the world about me. We traveled by rail…a private car not unlike those in which we came to Lyon. There was a nurse traveling with us who cared for me, insuring I ate my meals, and helping me dress when I lost my way in a tearful fugue halfway through.

I found the idea I had a nurse amusing, although I was not able to actually laugh about it. I had no control over my expression of emotions, and they were seldom in sync with my thoughts at all.

There is a name for that condition…but what it is escapes me.

It was lowering to think that I was undoubtedly going to be sent back to Nettles Home in Brighton…as a _patient_, instead of employee. Of course, Mr. Kahn did not discuss any of this with me, having stated only that I would be going back to Paris.

The de'Chagnys were anxious to see me, I gather, although I was not sure I wanted to see them. I had ultimately failed Christine, just as I had failed my family.

When at last we stepped from the railcars in the Gare d' Austerlitz rail station in southeastern Paris, Louise Thériault was standing in the station waiting for me, accompanied by two uniformed policemen. While the porters loaded my luggage onto the Duchess' coach, I hugged Mr. Kahn vigorously, aware his chin came only to my shoulder. Gravely he promised he would be in touch very soon.

The Thériault town coach was impressive, drawn by two strong bays with crimson feathers atop their headstalls, both uniformed coachman and second up on the drivers' box in black and red, and the Ventadour coat of arms upon the doors, painted in gold and crimson. When I looked rather wide-eyed at the policemen accompanying her, Louise was quick to reassure me. "I can go nowhere out in the evening without the Duke sending along a few of these gentlemen. Smiling, she patted the closest on the arm, saying, "Either he worries of my safety after dark…or I am under arrest."

The Thériault home…'Hôtel Ventadour'…was located in the Paris _Ouest_ district, an exclusive address in western Paris. Louise chattered about the hospital, the charity for which Christine de'Chagny was serving as patron, small bits of gossip. She knew I was tired and despondent, and chose to relieve me of the need to participate in actual conversation. Once home she led me straightaway to the large suite that would be my quarters.

Overwhelmed, I sat on the bed, feeling far from normal. "Louise, I am sorry. I am not good company at this moment…"

Louise dabbed at her eyes and squeezed my shoulder. "And we both know the cure for that. A full dose of sleep followed by tincture of time." After spending a few minutes explaining where everything was, Louise laid out a fine linen nightshift and various toiletries and insured there was fresh water in the cut crystal pitcher by the bed. She kissed my cheek and pulled the door closed on her way out.

I had refused the help of her ladies' maid. Alone for the first time in nearly a week, I changed into the shift, cleaned my face and teeth, and fell into the bed, exhausted.

For a solid day I did not awake, either dreamless, or enjoying those which were neither memorable nor troubled. Louise told me I slept as if one drugged, seldom showing anything beyond the rise and fall of my breast. "I believe it was a healing sleep. No bad dreams, apparently."

I could only say, "What I needed. I want no more dreams."

I stayed a week with Louise in Paris, spending much of that time blessedly alone. After several evenings playing the fine piano that served as mere window dressing in the 'music room', I finally found the strength to tell Louise the entire story…from the first moment I saw Erik, wild-eyed and magnificent in his prison cell, awaiting death. I told her of his past…what I knew of it. I told her of the man's beauty and the glory of his mind.

I stripped all mystery from the affair…laying it out even as I realized I was telling this to the spouse of the man who had hunted Erik de'Carpentier for nearly three years. But I knew my secret was safe; Louise told me she knew more than her husband ever would, and my secrets were safe. And Erik was dead. Nothing could harm him now…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Vicomtess d'Chagny visited once, the experience emotionally draining for us both. She had baby Aaron Phillipe with her, whose innocence and beauty provided a topic of discussion that transcended the sorrow in both of our hearts. We parted as friends; she extended an open invitation to stay with her if ever I wished.

During our visit, Christine said one thing that haunted me…would undoubtedly always do so. She said, "I knew you would bring him back to me…bring my dear Angel back as the friend and father I have missed so much. I comfort myself with the certainty you would have done so had this foreign devil not…not murdered my Angel."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Then one day Nadir Kahn came to Hôtel Ventadour to inform me, "It is time you were home, my dear Mademoiselle Butler. There is nothing here in Paris for you."

I argued vigorously, unwilling to return to London, or Brighton, and God forefend!…Ireland. I demanded to be allowed to go where I wished, reasoning that I was free of commitments, and sufficiently recovered from my shock to function on my own. Having been well compensated for my four weeks service by the de'Chagny's, I was flush enough to make my own way for a _very_ long while.

Kahn demurred, saying, "We all have a home; it is just not always where we would think. And this is a trip you will wish to make, dear Mademoiselle. We will be going to Rouen, and then you may decide where home is. But first…Rouen."

Mr. Kahn assured me it would be a short trip…a few hours…nothing exceptional or tiring. Unsettled to be leaving Paris…leaving so much of Erik behind!…I was cross and fretful with the poor man. "Why Rouen? I do not understand how traveling to Rouen is useful. And I am growing to hate trains!"

I had ragged one handkerchief already, the majority of it done whilst I waited with Mr. Kahn for the train early that morning. I was now making a solid start on the second, twisting and pulling it instead of my hands in an effort to allow my right wrist to heal. I had refused to wear the arm sling any longer the day before, tired of the pull upon my left shoulder.

The man was irritatingly stoic in the face of my petulant fussing, patting my hand, offering one of the many newspapers he carried. "Patience, my dear Mademoiselle," is all he would say.

This time we took a passenger car, but Kahn had secured a private cabin. We left from Gare Saint Lazare going northwest, following the Seine as it wandered to its rendezvous with the Channel at Le Havre.

I was relieved to pull my new bonnet off as it rubbed at my ears most painfully. Still feeling anxious and ill-used, I all but threw myself upon the plush bench seat, then leaned forward to massage my temples. Knowing of today's unwelcome intrusion into my set solitary routine, I'd suffered a damned restless night. By the time the train left the station and was well past the suburban sprawl of Paris, I was calm enough to sit back and close my eyes for a short nap.

I awoke to the rattle of china as Kahn poured a cup of tea. I smiled, saying, "You hate tea, Mr. Kahn."

He pushed the cup towards me on the narrow table under the window. "But you do not." Pouring himself a cup, he gingerly dosed it with milk and sugar, and made a most droll face upon taking his first sip. "Miserable stuff." Settling himself back into the bench, he scanned my face intently, then asked, "Are you ready for a bit of history, Mademoiselle?"

I immediately realized we were speaking of _Erik's_ history. Wordlessly I sipped tea and nodded, interest piqued. Kahn clasped his hands before him, and in fine orator's style began my lesson.

"There were de'Carpentiers in Rouen long before Phillip II Augustus annexed Normandy for the Kingdom of France in 1204. They were given their patent of title as _noblesse d'épée,_ or 'nobility of the sword', having rendered honor, service, and frequently paid their _impôt du sang_ or 'blood tax during the Hundred Years War."

"It is said the de'Carpentiers were a trifle hard on the free peasants who lived on and worked their lands. They demanded exorbitant _banalities…_ the dues peasants owed the landowner…and were relentless in taking their share of the crops raised upon their lands, even in the leanest years. It is said they proved overly enthusiastic in the exercise of their seigneurial rights in many other ways besides." Mr. Kahn's eyebrows waggled a trifle suggestively, making me smile.

Mr. Kahn returned my smile, positively beaming. "So…it should not be a great surprise to hear that Erik's great grandfather was the _last_ Duc d'Aiguillion, having lost the title along with his head and most of the family properties across France in 1797. This was at the very end of the political upheavals after the French Revolution. I have no doubt the de'Carpentiers were a prickly thorn in the sides of those demanding '_fraternity, liberty, equality_."

"So…Erik is…was of noble birth?"

"His ancestors were. His father never sought reinstatement of the title, and lived and worked in Paris while Erik was very young. The de'Carpentier ancestral home is in Rouen, however. And…so is their family cemetery."

"Oh." With a sinking heart I realized what was coming. We were to see Erik's grave. I wondered if that would finally make it _real_… "I must confess I have found it very hard to accept Erik is gone. He is…_was _such a…a powerful personality. It does not seem possible to obliterate such force of life with one small bit of lead." I rubbed my forehead, adding, "If I had not been there to see him shot, I would still not believe it."

Mr. Kahn soberly nodded, saying, "I understand, Mademoiselle."

"Or perhaps I am unwilling to deal with the grief, Mr. Kahn."

"Grieving serves no purpose, Mademoiselle. Forego it if you can."

I looked at the man with surprise. "What an extraordinary thing to say."

Kahn looked grimly out the car window at the French landscape flying past and sighed. "I have grieved, and it did nothing to carry me past the pain. Indeed…grieving served merely to intensify my depression of spirit. And so I chose to instead celebrate the life I shared with those I loved, remembering them as I had known and loved them. It proved by far the wiser…and more comforting…choice."

I nodded, a bit sad to think of Nadir Kahn's loss of both his wife and son. I had only lost a man I had known for four weeks…and loved for perhaps half that time. I used my hanky just a bit to forestall the tears that sprang forward every time I thought of _never seeing Erik again_.

Composing myself, I filled my teacup and watched the outskirts of Rouen flash past the train window, praying for the strength to get through the ordeal of seeing Erik's grave.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a carriage awaiting us at the station in Rouen. Once my luggage was loaded, we set off, the destination explained to me as 'the de'Carpentier estate'. Mr. Kahn added, "Of course, most of the land has been sold off to developers who have turned it into a large number of smaller estates for the _nouveau riche_. The actual home is now an orphanage and children's hospital, deeded to the city by the family not long after the last Duc's death. However, we need visit only one small portion that is maintained by the city but considered private property."

"The cemetery?" Soon we would look at his grave…and then perhaps I could believe it…that Erik was…

Kahn smiled sadly. "I do not do this to increase your sorrow, dear lady."

I nodded, unable to return his smile.

The cemetery was not large, a stone fenced acre of well-tended grass surrounding a large ornately carved mausolea with the name 'De'Carpentier' inscribed deeply into the massive granite lintel. There were gravestones placed in 'family' groups surrounding this, scattered across the area, some of which were worn featureless by the inexorable force of time.

Mr. Kahn led me a small area just within the entrance; there were several stones of black granite, and a large pillar monument with the family name carved up the sides. Standing atop the pillar was the Archangel Michael, a massive sword held in his hand.

Silently I read off the names on the headstones:

_Alexander August De'Carpentier, Born 1749 - Died 1797._

_Charles Erik De'Carpentier, Born 1795 – Died…_

_Alexander Charles De'Carpentier Born 1837 – Died 1845, "Beloved Son of Eight Years"._

_Erik August De'Carpentier, Born 1839 - …_

There was Erik's full name. There was his birth year. The earth before the stone was newly sodded, apparently after his burial. The tiny flame of hope that had burned on despite the heavy weather of logic and witness borne flickered…guttered…

I knelt and laid my hand upon the earth that covered his beloved body. Vaguely I was aware that Nadir Kahn excused himself, stepping away, leaving me alone with Erik's grave. Some part of me wanted to thank him for his thoughtfulness, even as my mind wrestled with the idea…'Erik is dead. Here is the proof. _Erik is dead_.'

"Erik, wherever you are, I miss you." Again the hanky was necessary. Weeping and sniffing self-consciously, I dabbed frantically as the tears fell faster. My nose would be next, I thought helplessly, and then I would be a mess.

A hand rested gently upon my shoulder, the smell of sandalwood faint because of my nasal affliction.

"I shall never lie there, never. Poor Erik de'Carpentier is no more."

For an moment I actually wondered what alchemy had rendered Nadir Kahn's clipped and accented voice into that of smooth, warm tenor. Large, strong hands cupped my elbows and drew me upward…

I turned about…and was tightly enfolded into arms that I knew, surrounded by the warmth I craved, my lips touched by those I adored. Soundlessly we stayed thus, swaying to and fro, rendered silent by the glory and wonder of the moment. In my head a halleluiah chorus of only the most celestial variety was singing over and over, 'Erik! Erik! Erik is alive!'

Gently he pushed me back a bit, saying only, "Aislyne. My god, I've missed you. I am so sorry." He blotted my face with his handkerchief, the scent of it as comforting as his voice.

I stared at him hungrily, emotion stealing all possibility of speech. He was thinner, his eyes shadowed. The skin dye was gone, leaving his hands and face pale; his hair had regained its lovely dark russet color…but chopped short here and overlong and ragged there.

And the entire right side of his forehead was the vivid yellow-green of a fading bruise. And there…right at the temple, was the impact site of the bullet, a knot still raised and swollen about a small wound. For a long moment I stared at the ugly mark, then touched it in wonder, whispering. "It did misfire…Praise God. I thought I had given Hashim the gun that killed you, Erik. I have been in such low spirits…"

In answer Erik kissed me. "Obviously you gave him the _correct_ pistol. Although I was knocked out for quite a while."

"It was supposed to misfire and injure the person _wielding_ it." And then I again burst into tears, squeaking, "I knew you were not dead Erik. _I knew it_!" With a howl of anguish, I buried my face into my hands.

Erik pulled me close, and after I had again quieted, he touched the wound upon his forehead. "Madam Butler, admit at least that it was a close thing."

I laughed helplessly at him whilst again sopping up tears, and then we were both quiet, my hand upon his right cheek, and his hand stroking my chin. Suddenly his eyes narrowed and his mouth grew tight. "I swore if ever I saw you again I was going to throttle you. You _tricked_ me, Madame…but I could forgive you that."

Resolutely I firmed my chin and stared back. "Oh, indeed?"

"Yes. What I find hard to forgive that you thought you should kill Hashim before I could. You have no idea what it was to know you were in his possession. I thought I would go _mad_…"

And I was remembering the scene…the sounds and strong odor of gunpowder. And the horror of seeing Hashim stand over Erik's prostrate body, calling for a knife…

I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Erik…I _did_ kill him, just as I had planned. You were never expected to know until the deed was done. All things being equal, I would say it turned out _much better_ than had you gone in, guns blazing, only to be cut down by his henchmen."

His eyes went wide and jaw dropped, but before he could speak, I placed my index finger upon his chest and poked, saying, "Let us speak of _tricks_! Do you know what this past week has been for me? Thinking you dead and buried…I mourned you…heartsick and ill. And now to learn the entire time you were alive and safe, brooding upon MY improbity?" I stepped out of his arms with a "Humph!"

For a moment, we exchanged scowls. I found it very difficult not to smile at the absurdity of our behavior; apparently so did Erik, succumbing at last to the tiniest tug upon the corner of my lips to bestow a wide, toothy grin. "I had no choice, my love. Circumstances were not mine to direct. And I believe the Daroga was dancing to another's tune in this, too." He shrugged elegantly, then watched me warily.

"Then I forgive you…and Mr. Kahn…" Laying my hands flat against his chest I asked, "You do forgive me Erik, yes? I did it because I'd rather you had lived without me, than I without you. Selfish, I know."

Erik's large warm hands encircled my neck, and he tipped his head, his expression playfully fierce. His thumbs held my chin up for an instant to receive a warm, promising kiss. "I find I must sing, my darling Aislyne. Call it my audition for the world tour you will be soon planning…as my manager, of course."

With a delicious sense of anticipation, I nodded enthusiastically. "Sing, oh please, sing for me!"

With another soft kiss, he leaned back and laid one hand over his heart, the other clasping my hand. He sang softly at first, but his rich, low tenor soon soared to fill my heart with the healing _feel_ of his words.

_Si tú deseas a mí yo no lo sé;_

_pero yo deseo a ti en buena fe._

_Ca no a ninguna más, así lo ten;_

_ni es, ni será jamás otra mi bien._

_En tan buen hora te, vi y te hablé,_

_que del todo te me di en buena fe. _

_Yo soy tuyo, no lo dudes sin fallir;_

_y no pienses al, ni cudes sin mentir._

_Después que te conocí me cautivé,_

_y seso y saber perdí en buena fe._

_A ti amo y amaré toda sazón,_

_y siempre te serviré con gran razón,_

_pues la mejor escogí de cuantas sé,_

_y no finjo ni fingí en buena fe!_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Song of Love

Whether you love me, I cannot declare;

But that I love you, this I do swear.

No other woman could I hold so dear;

Not now, nor ever, another revere.

When I beheld you, Oh day

most blest by love's tender prayer,

With my all I endowed you, this I do swear.

I'm yours, don't doubt it, so fear no deceit;

To think otherwise, would be false conceit.

Since the day I first met you, my heart is caught in a snare,

And my wits are your captive, this I do swear.

I love, will love you now and evermore;

Will serve you ever by love's faithful law.

For I've chosen the finest from amongst all the most fair,

And as truth is my witness, this I do swear.

MARQUÉS DE SANTILLANA [1398 – 1458]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Aaaaugh! Its finished. Excuse me whilst I reel about the room for a few hours, rejoicing!**


End file.
